


Degrees of Freedom

by generaljanuary



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Future Fic, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generaljanuary/pseuds/generaljanuary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Lima, Kurt Hummel scrunches up his nose as he peels off his grease-stained coveralls after a long day at the garage. In Westerville, Blaine Anderson sits on the bed of his childhood bedroom and stares at the luggage he hasn’t fully unpacked since he’s been back home, about four months ago. Tonight, they’re going to meet for the first time in a dive gay bar. The year is 2018, this is Ohio and adult life is nothing like either of them had imagined it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Language, sex, mention of character death (Burt), minor Kurt/OMC and implied Kurt/OMCs.
> 
> This was originally posted at my livejournal for the Klaine BigBang Challenge 2011.  
> http://fanny-moon.livejournal.com/53551.html
> 
> Also: All of these facts are dropped at one point or another in the story, so you don’t have to read them, but if you do you might feel a little less lost. AU: For the sake of the plot, Burt and Carole have broken up after “Theatricality”. Burt dies shortly after “Duet”, causing Kurt to miss a lot of school. When he comes back to McKinley, he has to quit Glee club for what remains of his junior year in order to make up for the time lost. Consequently, the situation with Karofsky doesn’t escalate past slushies, taunts and shoves; Kurt never meets Blaine and Kurt doesn’t go to New York with ND for Nationals. When Kurt turns 18, he inherits the house and the garage and decides to stay in Lima and keep his father’s business alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Language, sex, mention of character death (Burt), minor Kurt/OMC and implied Kurt/OMCs.
> 
> This was originally posted at my livejournal for the Klaine BigBang Challenge 2011.  
> http://fanny-moon.livejournal.com/53551.html
> 
> Also: All of these facts are dropped at one point or another in the story, so you don’t have to read them, but if you do you might feel a little less lost. AU: For the sake of the plot, Burt and Carole have broken up after “Theatricality”. Burt dies shortly after “Duet”, causing Kurt to miss a lot of school. When he comes back to McKinley, he has to quit Glee club for what remains of his junior year in order to make up for the time lost. Consequently, the situation with Karofsky doesn’t escalate past slushies, taunts and shoves; Kurt never meets Blaine and Kurt doesn’t go to New York with ND for Nationals. When Kurt turns 18, he inherits the house and the garage and decides to stay in Lima and keep his father’s business alive.

In Lima, Kurt Hummel scrunches up his nose as he peels off his grease-stained coveralls after a long day at the garage. He cringes when he hears loud, boisterous laughter coming from the working area.

In Westerville, Blaine Anderson sits on the bed of his childhood bedroom and stares at the luggage he hasn’t fully unpacked since he’s been back home about four months ago.  
The year is 2018, this is Ohio.

***

Blaine Anderson, at 24, is a man who tends to value self-awareness. If he is completely honest with himself, he knows that he's not much less naïve (or, you know, stupid) than he was at sixteen.  
Sixteen is Dalton and the Warblers and sneaking up alone on the rooftop of Rasler Hall; eyes closed, slow deep breaths and the touch of the breeze on his face. It's a sensation he now associates with the pure notion of youth, that feeling he had back then; like he could throw himself in the void and the wind would simply pick him up and carry him wherever he needed to be. Looking back, Blaine's a little glad he never shared his secret rooftop musings with anyone. Any sane person would have thought him suicidal, but it was actually the exact opposite; an intense, overwhelming confidence in life.

 

He used to be a little too intense at romance; wanted to believe in love at first sight and soul mates. He likes to think that wisdom does come with age; that his approach towards love and relationships has matured with him. He now believe in _I-want-to-know-everything-about-you_ at first sight; a tug in his gut, a slow tickle down his spine, a blindsiding spark of tenderness for a stranger. An intense and instantaneous attraction staggering him from just the right combination of shoulder slant, crop of hair around an ear shell and waist well accentuated by a belt. Blaine doesn't have a type, really. It's a pleasant surprise every time. Who catches his attention, what his brains chooses to remember and project against the back of his eyelids at night when he closes his eyes. While Blaine isn't nearly as intense as he used to be and doesn't believe in destiny per se, he likes to believe that sometimes the universe sends hints, instincts. Friendly little pushes in the right direction.

 

Blaine’s been back in Ohio for a few months now, but it’s only his second night out at the Alterno. The establishment--that opened while Blaine was away at college-- prides itself in being the only gay bar in Westerville. Blaine had been dubious at first, but he had to admit that it was nice not having to drive all the way to Columbus for a good time and since the Alterno was indeed the only _alternate_ bar around, it had a little bit of everything for everyone. Blaine is completely ready to spend another night hanging out in a quieter, warmly lit part of the nightclub, nursing a beer and watching men interact, feeling only a little bit creepy and out of place, when he notices the slight, elegant man leaning casually over the bar, waiting for his drink. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to reveal pale, long forearms that are resting on the surface of the counter. One of his angled legs is bent at the knee, the square-toed end of his shiny black shoes tapping against the floor to the beat of the music.

 

Blaine, _Nothing-is-a-coincidence-Blaine_ , really can't bring himself to simply let it go. He would recognize the stranger anywhere. In fact, Blaine remembers spending most of his last night out admiring the man’s silhouette and the careful way he carries himself. Blaine remembers his first night back in Ohio in strange, explosive bursts of emotion that the memory of the attractive, stranger paints in even darker colors.

 

It's nothing like a little tug, what he feels in his stomach. He feels like he's been punched- and Blaine knows a thing or two about being punched in the stomach. All the air slips out of his lungs, quick and uncontrolled; like it was tied to a string that is suddenly being pulled with force. It's not a mere combination of nice features, the imprint this man makes in Blaine's mind, it's like successfully slotting two seemingly unfitting puzzle pieces together. Blaine didn't think it was possible to be so unexpectedly startled by a stranger’s appearance and demeanour upon second sight.

 

The bartender slides a tall glass filled with a clear concoction to the man who nods his thanks with a half-smile. He turns around and rests his back and elbows on the countertop, takes a sip from his drink- a mojito if judging by the twig of mint twirled through the crushed iced- and casts a glance across the room, his gaze slow and heavy. His eyelids are slightly lowered over his wandering eyes, as if weighted down by long lashes that Blaine notices from a distance when the strobe lights catch them just right. A careless, casual grace surrounds his silhouette and for half a second he looks bored, uninterested. Then Blaine cocks his head to the side and his perception shifts; the foot tapping is a little faster than the tempo and the man's long fingers are just a little tighter than necessary around his glass. The restlessness is barely buried beneath the calm surface.

 

The stranger's eyes reach Blaine after a slow blink and Blaine startles a little and looks down into his beer bottle, now warm between his hands, hoping his inappropriate staring hasn't been caught. He fiddles with his brown napkin, twisting the corners between his fingers, and nervously taps the sole of his shoe against the leg of the small round table he's sitting at. When he dares to look up, the man has seated himself on a stool, still facing away from the bar. His legs are crossed at the knee, their long, perfect lines flaunted for the whole room to admire.

 

Blaine's not done this much; tried to pick guys up in bars. It's not really his scene; it's not a very organic way of meeting people. He prefers quieter places, but after Boston, being in Ohio again makes electricity gather restlessly under his skin. Ohio feels like going to sleep hungry. He needs to not be home and watch his parents pretend to watch TV. He needs to do _something_.

 

In that dreadfully unremarkable Midwestern gay bar, Blaine practically physically feels it; the universe tapping on his shoulder, trying to catch his attention. He fidgets a little in his seat, gathering himself up into someone who looks worth striking up a conversation with, not a guy who feels like all the important parts of him have been misplaced. He downs the last of his tepid beer, hops down his bar stool and pats down his shirt, chasing away imaginary creases. He fiddles a little with his hair, making sure it’s still all in place despite the sweat gathering at his temples from the hot heavy air.

 

The bartender is busy at the other end of the counter. It’s not a particularly busy Friday night, but there’s a group seated at the end of the bar, loud and boisterous, keeping the bartender busy with easy conversation and frequent orders. Blaine sets his empty bottle down and settles next to the attractive man, leaning onto the bar and drumming a nervous rhythm with his fingers on the flat surface. After a few breathes, he glances at the other man from the corner of his eyes and finds him looking at him, body still facing the other side of the room but head tilted towards him, lips stretched into a tiny half-smile, one eyebrow raised expectantly. Blaine gets a head rush, a torrent rising just behind his eyes, his head suddenly swimming. For a dizzy second, he’s sure he can feel his body floating; his brown scruffy shoes hovering an inch or two above the sticky floor.

 

“Hi!” He blurts out through the huge grin he can feel spreading uncontrollably on his face.

“Hi.” The stranger echoes, quieter. His features soften a little and his smile seems to settle more surely on his lips.

Blaine, encouraged, opens his mouth to speak but, for a moment, his brain and throat freeze and nothing comes out, until:

“Hum… Do you come here often?”

The stranger’s eyes and smile widen, both his eyebrows shoot up and chase after his hair line and he laughs; a little surprised, a whole lot amused. His laughter sounds like a bell dropped on a thick carpet. Blaine is overcome with the urge to feel the rounded underside of those revealed straight, white, tiny teeth with the pad of his thumb and that, right there is a little scary. Wanting to touch someone’s _teeth_ is so far removed from normal human behavior – unless you’re a dentist, or something- that Blaine thinks to himself that he ought to have stayed home. He doesn’t get to linger on that thought for too long.

 

“Wow. Okay. Cliché pick-up lines. Does that work often for you?” Despite the dismissiveness of the words, they are framed by warm chuckles and the man’s eyes stay on him, his face open, signalling that the question is not rhetorical. Blaine manages to not feel completely mortified.

“Huh.” He lowers and shakes his head a little, grin still firmly in place. “I-I don’t know. I don’t really do this.” He pauses. “It _was_ pretty terrible, wasn’t it?”

They share a smile and the slender stranger takes a sip of his drink through a tiny white straw, the ice clinking in the glass as the amount of liquid rapidly decreases.

 

“That’s okay, here you go, ” he affects an exaggeratedly leering expression and says, in a voice much gruffer than his normal timbre: “ _Can I buy you a drink?_ ”They both laugh and the man turns a little on his stool so he’s facing Blaine. “Now, nobody needs to feel embarrassed.” His voice is light and playful, laughter printed all across his face. Blaine straightens up from his half-slouched position against the counter and offers his hand.

“I’m Blaine. Blaine Anderson.” He stops himself from adding _Pleasure to meet you!_ .  
“I’m Kurt.”

 

His hand is a little stiff and cold and Blaine sort of wants to keep it forever, but he settles for a handshake that probably lasts just a little too long. Kurt is still smiling, though, so Blaine guesses he’s not acting like a total creep.

“I was serious, though. Can I get you anything?” Kurt gestures towards the bar and looks down into his own mostly empty glass, high pale cheeks coloring a little. His shoulders curve inwardly almost imperceptibly; shy. Like he’s afraid Blaine will brush him off.

Blaine feels his fingertip tingle and go numb; like that one time he stupidly shoved them into an electric socket on a drunk dare in college. He lets them dance idly on the countertop to calm himself down a little. His excitement keeps ratcheting up and up and up. Like there is no roof, no peak, just endless heights of exhilaration to be attained.

 

“Sure! I’ll have… anything! Surprise me.” Blaine spots a free stool a little further along the bar, drags it next to Kurt’s with a loud metallic noise and sits himself down.

Kurt raises an eyebrow cockily, the shyness from before has mostly sipped out of his demeanour, but Blaine can’t unsee it now that he’s recorded it on these features, that posture. It’s still there, retreated to the shadows left on his face by the lighting of the club, furled tightly in the corners of him, ready to uncurl and cover him up like weeding vines at any moment and Blaine only hopes that he doesn’t trip and calls it forth in his clumsiness.

 

“Are you sure? I know some pretty awful cocktails.” Kurt says, his voice rising to a teasing sing-song on the last syllables.

 

Blaine has to put his whole body on lockdown. He wants to turn and stare onto Kurt’s eyes and say _I trust you._ He clenches his jaw and breathes in, out. Damage control. Even _he_ knows that’s too intense. He bites his lower lip. He hasn’t stopped grinning since he’s stepped up to the bar and his cheeks are starting to ache a little, muscles strained from supporting the tremendous weight of his giddiness.

 

“Can’t be as awful as that beer I just had.” He points the empty bottle that the bartender still hasn’t picked up and shrugged.

“Bland, mass-produced, American beer.” Kurt grimaces in distaste, nose scrunched up and lips pursed. “I see enough of that at home. I tend to go a little wild when I get to go out.” He emphasizes by shaking his glass and slurping up the rest of his drink. He puts the glass back down with more force than necessary. The noise attracts the bartender’s attention in their direction for the first time and he starts making his way towards them.

“Oh, so _that’s_ how it’s done.” Blaine gestures vaguely in the direction of the approaching employee.

Kurt smiles, self-satisfied and tilts his head as if accepting a praise.

“Yep. That’s how it’s done.” He quips.

When the bartender reaches them, Kurt orders two Rum Alexanders and slips a bill out of a wallet so slim that it doesn’t even create a bulge when he slips it back into the back pocket of his skinny jeans. When they get their drinks, Kurt raises his.

“Cheers?”

“Cheers, thanks.” Blaine clinks his glass against Kurt’s. They both take a first slow sip and Blaine hums appreciatively. “That’s good.”

Kurt smiles and lowers his head.

“I know.” He stirs his straw around his glass, looking at Blaine through his eyelashes. “You know, if I wanted to continue with the theme of the evening-“

“Which is?” Blaine interrupts, raising an eyebrow.

“Bad pickup lines.” Kurt deadpans with an amused yet pointed look that causes Blaine to blush a little and chuckle warmly. “If I’d wanted to stick with the theme of the evening, there are tons of cocktails with really, really inappropriate names that I could have ordered.”

 

Unexpected warmth churns and swells in Blaine’s belly. Kurt had looked practically unattainable when Blaine had just been looking at him longingly from across the room. Up close, like this, with the easy, comfortable banter, Blaine can see the playful glint in his eyes, the way his shoulders tense and relax as they weave through a conversation that has had many opportunity to turn awkward or trite but has so far managed to remain fun and casual.

 

“Like what?” He asks curiously, playing with the orange slice wedged onto the rim of his glass before he takes another sip.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He laughs. “Like a ‘Slow, Comfortable Screw Up Against The Wall’. “

Blaine chokes on his drink and Kurt snorts. Blaine’s face feels hot from the coughing, the embarrassment and something else. He feels hot all over, actually.

“Is… is that a real thing? I mean, is that any good?” Blaine asks in a rough voice once he’s regained his bearings.

Kurt’s smirk morphs into a smile that suggest he is not as angelic as his exterior advertises and he lowers his eyes. Blaine observes him, fascinated by the fluctuations in his confidence. One second he looks like he has no clue about his own charm and the other he flirts unashamedly, his movements looking almost rehearsed. Kurt’s index finger traces little Xs in the condensation left by his glass on the countertop. Blaine barely has time to wonder if he’s spelling kisses or rejections before Kurt’s eyes sharply cut back to him, pinning him in place, in time. Like an arrow spearing through him, through his surroundings and landing, bull’s eye, at the center of Blaine’s mind; a detailed memory solidly fixed, forever vivid, never to slip away.

 

“Don’t know. Never had one.” Kurt’s voice is breathy and every slow word sinks, heavy, inside Blaine. He is struck dumb for a moment, thoughts fleeing in every direction, like they’re suddenly swirling around his head instead of inside it. It’s only the almost imperceptible change in Kurt’s appearance that sucks them back in; a slow, slow crumpling around the edges. The strobe lights from the dance floor in the adjacent section of the club glint of off of those wet Xs on the countertop. Blaine is quick to open his mouth to say something, anything and unfortunately, what comes out is:

 

“Hum, wow. You’re really good at this. How can you stand to be having a conversation with _me_?”

 

Kurt’s expression freezes on his face for a second before he’s laughing again, relief seeming to pour out of him at the seams. He takes a steadying sip of his drink and there’s still disbelieving mirth in his voice when he shakes his head and asks:

“Are you even real?”

Blaine chuckles self-consciously but inside he’s compiling all of the ways he already knows to make the other man laugh.  
“I don’t know, I often wonder the same thing. Maybe I’m not and you’re only dreaming this up, safe and sound at home in your bed.”

Kurt’s face settles into a warm smile as he wipes the counter with a nearby napkin before he rests his elbow on it, then his face in his palm.

“You’re not entirely hopeless.” He says softly.

Silence settles comfortably in the space between them, like big heavy snowflakes filling the void slowly, gently. Nothing like the image of cement sloshing sluggishly between two bricks that Blaine usually associates with awkward stilts in conversations. Bodies turned towards each other, they share quiet looks and smiles in between sips of their drinks. The fragile knowledge is swirling around them; that they’ve both stumbled into a gently glide towards one another. That it’s up to them to decide if they will surrender to it and let themselves collide in the middle.

 

“I don’t. Not really.” Kurt says quietly after a few silent minutes have passed.

“What?” Blaine is confused.

Kurt looks down and drums his fingers against the side of his half-empty glass, a wry smile twisting his lips.

 

“Earlier, you asked if I came here often. Not really. Never twice in the same month, not every month; I have to skip at least one once in a while. No more than three drinks; I have to keep my head clear enough to drive back and be home before three AM.” He rests a fingertip on the counter for every strange rule he enunciates. Blaine furrows his eyebrows, but keeps quiet; Kurt doesn’t look like he’s done talking. “I’d never been to a bar or a club before I turned twenty-one; even less in a gay one.” Blaine doesn’t know what to make of the snort Kurt lets out. “At first it was always so exciting. It felt special; like a reward for making it through a couple of months. I’d get to come here. I don’t even know.” Kurt shakes his head and finishes his drink. The coat of false unaffected cheerfulness is so thin Blaine can make out the heavy sombreness beneath.

 

Blaine’s hand twitches towards Kurt’s on the surface of the bar and he stares at it, thinking : _Behave!_ viciously. He wants to sweep his hands over these too-straight shoulders and rid them of whatever burden they so apparently struggle to carry, raise those eyebrows and the corner of those lips with the tips of his fingers; sculpt serenity on this delicate face. A dozen questions are bouncing around in his mouth, but he clenches his teeth against them, fumbling to find something to say that would be interested but not invasive.

 

He is saved from his task as Kurt’s face suddenly light up and Blaine notices- for the first time since he’s started talking with Kurt- the music from the adjacent dance floor. [ The intro of the song instantly catches his attention ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_1SJcbdlSpM), an old song from his teenage years that he – and probably a thousand other kids- had had on repeat in his iPod for weeks.

 

“Oh! I can’t believe they’re playing this! They almost never play her songs anymore. You remember her, right? I was so devastated when she died.” Kurt looks like someone flipped a switch and lit him up from the inside and Blaine is once more reminded of the power music has on people.

 

Kurt sends a look over his shoulder, stares at the dance floor longingly. When he turns his face back to Blaine, he is biting his lower lip and Blaine isn’t about to make him beg. He hops down his stool and offer his hand for Kurt to take.

 

“Come on, you have to help me dance off that drink if I want to be able to drive back home tonight.”

 

Kurt grins delightedly and slips his lovely hand in Blaine’s; lets him lead the way to the dance floor. The song is gritty-sexy and fast-paced, just like Blaine remembers. He turns to face Kurt once he’s found a not too crowded spot and they both start finding their rhythm. Blaine has spent large portions of his adolescence swaying and twirling on himself while encased in a sea of masculine bodies, so while he sometimes misses the security of a choreography, he’s always been rather comfortable on a dance floor, snapping his fingers to the tempo. Kurt is mouthing the lyrics, eyes closed, face painted ghostly-beautiful by the sharp shadows and colored lights. The song has attracted more people and the crowd presses around them, bringing their bodies closer until Blaine can make out that Kurt is actually singing, voice loud and wrecked, buried beneath the music pouring out of the powerful speakers.

 

 _“I want your love and all your lover’s revenge, you and me could write a bad romance.”_

 

Kurt’s breath stirs a lose curl near Blaine’s ear. It tickles and makes him shiver down to his toes. He feels very aware of every part of his body, the distance between them and the man before him. There’s a little wistfulness mixed into the unmistakable joy splashed all across Kurt’s features and Blaine can’t help but to let his eyes linger, especially when Kurt keeps his closed, lost in the moment. The way he moves suggests a half-forgotten choreography and when he looks at Blaine after a twirl, making sure he is still facing the right dance partner, the open, delighted look on his face make something usually sturdy inside of Blaine snap. His hands, when he places them on Kurt’s hips, feel light; like a single sway of the other man’s hip could send them flying away. He swallows thickly and shifts closer. He realizes that in the process of observing his dance partner, his own body has gone completely still. He searches Kurt’s face to look for a sign that the contact is unwelcome and, close as they now are, his eyes make a slow ascent to reach Kurt’s own gaze and… oh. Breathing is suddenly a little more difficult.

 

Blaine’s used to being an average-size guy and besides the infrequent wish for an extra inch or two, he’s never put much thought into it, but with the proximity, feeling his chest tremble at the idea that his hands might be brushed off, his hooded, unsure eyes looking up at Kurt feel like a supplication; like he is begging for Kurt to be ok with this, for him to want more as well.

 

Kurt’s eye lower a little and meet Blaine’s. Makes a minute move with his head; so subtle it could be part of his dancing. The tiny nod is almost meek, bashful, but it’s a definite green light. Blaine licks his lips nervously and resumes dancing; feeling like a caged bird is madly fluttering its wings inside his chest. The song hasn’t changed but their movements have gone slower, more purposeful, as if they are now underwater; their limbs having to cut through something tangible rather than just the stale air of the club. Their bodies have synched up. When Kurt steps back, Blaine fills the void and even though it’s his hands on the other man’s hips, he tries to let his body language spell clearly that he likes following, finding the right moves to answer his partner’s. Kurt’s gone a little shy again, his eyes open but lowered, watching their moving feet, a small pleased smile on his face and when their belt buckles accidentally collide and click his mouth opens. His eyes meet Blaine’s and his smile widens, becomes a little daring. They’re close and touching and swaying, but their dancing hasn’t turned dirty and Blaine’s mouth dries up at the challenge he reads etched up on Kurt’s face.

 

The furtive glances and lingering touches make Blaine dizzy and when the song abruptly ends, the anticipation is a huge sphere vibrating around them, drowning out the crowd. The next song is inexplicably too loud and too fast, eroding their imaginary bubble of intimacy. They’ve both stopped moving, standing just a little too close to each other for the immobility to remain comfortable very much longer. Kurt is staring at him, chest heaving from the exertion of the dance and before the moment becomes awkward, before the anticipation turns to ashes at their feet he grabs one of Blaine’s hands from his hip and starts leading him out of the dancing area.

 

Something heavy and huge is sitting in Blaine’s throat, something that tastes a lot like expectations and hope. A droplet of sweat crawls down his temple and the sound of his heartbeat drowns out the new song and _Calm down, calm down, don’t do this to yourself. He’s probably just taking you back to the bar for another drink and a chat. Or he’ll kiss you on the cheek and disappear into the night before he turns into a pumpkin for breaking one of his rules…_ For a moment, he regrets not having snapped before. If this is all he was going to get, he should have enjoyed it fully and gotten a little grinding action going, no matter what a stupid, stupid voice in his head says about _rupturing the moment_. He needs to douse himself in good cold shower of reality, rewind his memory and erase the magic he’s imagined; revise how much of himself he’s allowed to place into a stranger’s hands.

 

Blaine snaps out of his self-recriminating thoughts when Kurt leads him into the restroom and crowds the two of them into a stall, locking the door behind them. _Oh._ His heart sinks a little more. His mind flashes back to the last time he came to the Alterno, that time he’d first noticed Kurt and trapped him in his memory. He remembers that whatever _this_ is, it’s not about him. It’s mostly not about him.

 

For a moment, they’re back to silently staring at each other, there’s little distance between them and the rising tension invites the continuation of the earlier challenge: who’s going to make the first move. Blaine thinks it’s a little unfair how Kurt led him here and won’t man up and take that step, but he sees the other man’s hand reaching for him and abruptly stopping, as if the movement had been swallowed by a sudden, ridiculous doubt as to whether or not Blaine would welcome the touch. One of the walls Blaine works very hard at keeping up inside of himself crumbles, just like that. He smiles warmly and cups Kurt’s cheek, his hand steady. He takes the responsibility of the moment out of Kurt’s hand. He waits a moment for Kurt’s eyes to seek his and when they do, he whispers:

 

“You are so beautiful.”

 

Kurt’s eyes lower instantly and although his cheeks color, his smile carries the indulgence of someone who has come to hear compliments in a distorted way. Slowly, he places his palms on Blaine’s chest and starts bending one of his legs. Blaine only has a few seconds to realize that Kurt is about to kneel on the floor and panic fills his head because _No. Just… no._ Not like this. Although the image of Kurt on his knees in front of him is almost enough to make his own knees buckle, he actually feels crack forming in the moment and wrongness gushes in like muddy water. He grabs Kurt’s upper arms, keeps him right where he is. He is relieved to see that he reacted fast enough when he notices confusion rather than humiliation spread on Kurt’s face. With the tip of his fingers, Blaine strokes across the other man’s forehead and down his cheek. He traces his jawline on both sides. Blaine feels his throat tighten up because he’s never seen a face like this. A face that makes you think: ‘Oh, this is how faces are meant to look.’ His fingers make their way to Kurt’s scalp where his hair is short and soft. His hands pause to rest on each side of Kurt’s long white neck. The fluttering pulse he finds there reminds him that he has his hands cupped around one of the most vulnerable part of the human body. He gulps and let his thumb stroke the delicate skin, hypnotized by the bobbing of the other man’s Adam’s apple. He then slips his hand down those shoulders that always seem too stiff or too slouched.

 

Kurt’s eyes are a little wide; he blinks rapidly as his gaze travel up and down Blaine, studying him as Blaine learns him with his hands. The only noise in the tiny stall is their breathing. Blaine slowly, slowly slips his hands down Kurt’s shoulder blades and brings him closer in a loose embrace. He can’t quite control the trembling in his voice when he says, quietly, his lips brushing against Kurt’s ear:

 

“Please, let me take you somewhere else.”

He definitely doesn’t say _I’ll have you whatever way you let me, but please, I don’t want your only lasting memory of me to be stains on the knee of your jeans._ Kurt has been nothing but an intricate mountain of contradictions since the moment they’d started talking. It must be exhausting to constantly be pulled and stretched in opposite directions and yet he manages to maintain the appearance of being larger than life; cocky, yet undeniably vulnerable. He’s just a little too vibrant. A light that burns too bright, threatening to flicker out at any moment. Just a little too expressive, just a little too sad around the edges he tries to fold out of sight. Just a little too much. He’s a single drop spilling over the brim of perfection and Blaine just wants to gather up every last trace of him.  
Kurt stiffens a little in his arms and puts enough distance between them for Blaine to see his expression turn a little wary. Blaine knows his request is the force that subjected something fragile and possibly beautiful to gravity and he catches his breath, hoping for Kurt to gently break its fall.

 

“I-I don’t…” Kurt stammers, pushing a little more against Blaine’s chest, like it will be easier to say no if they are not breathing the same air. Then his whole composure changes like he’s shifting gears, changing tactics. His face smoothens into a seductive mask and his fingers tighten in Blaine’s shirt.

“I promise I can make you feel good right here.” He smirks and leans down, latches his hot mouth onto Blaine’s neck and sucks wetly at his pulse point.

“Oh!” The exclamation dies down in a moan and Blaine cups the back of Kurt’s head again, short hair soft like silk between his grasping fingers. “Kurt, I-“

 

Here it is; uncontrollable arousal and its dizzying cloud of urgency. It’s sweet and intoxicating and it swallows everything. It disintegrates thoughts into smoke and good intentions into raw need. Blaine doesn’t know what to do. He wants and wants; refuses to even think about how much he wants, but he can’t quiet down his stupid heart. The _stupid_ soft part of him that has probably already written a song about this man he just met. The part of him that is still and will always be that teenager who liked to sneak up on the top of a school building to feel the wind whisper promises across his face. As much as he likes to believe that he’s a _grown up_ and has shed his foolish romantic notions, he can’t help but to feel that some things have to be done _the right way_. That it does matter in the grand scheme of things.

 

He gently cradles Kurt’s face and kisses him slowly, tries to get his trembling fingers to stop spelling nervousness; to instead etch tenderness across the soft skin. He feels Kurt melt a little between his hands, against his body and he sighs softly into his mouth, tries to let the tension bleed out of him through this one, long, unhurried kiss.

 

“I have no doubt that you can.” He whispers against Kurt’s lips. “But _I_ want…”He bites his lips.

 

They are rising in him; the inappropriate, too intense words. The things that can’t be said this early, especially to someone who spooks so easy. The words he can’t bring himself to consider cheesy when they’re true. _To undo you the way you undo me. To do right by you. To make you feel special. To take my time and erase the hurt you carry in your eyes._ He knows he’s clumsy; drops his heart everywhere and lets anyone pick it up; doesn’t care if they give it back or not. He leans back in and presses his lips against Kurt’s again; silences himself. He takes a long steadying breath through his nose and grasps Kurt’s biceps when he breaks the kiss. He keeps his eyes tightly closed for a second, hopes the right words will come to him; the impactful but casual words that will convince Kurt to let Blaine be at least a little more than a quick, public bathroom blowjob. Kurt’s hands are roaming down his back, nimble fingers wriggling their way into Blaine’s belt loops, bringing their hips closer.

 

“You want…?”Kurt prods for Blaine to continue, his nose sliding up Blaine’s cheek in a barely there caress.

 

Blaine leans forwards, rests some of his weight on the slightly taller man, pinning him to the partition wall. One of Kurt’s leg slides between Blaine’s. One of his hand travels down to Blaine’s ass, the other buries itself in the mess of curls that is Blaine’s hair. Blaine rocks his hips almost subconsciously, grinding slowly against Kurt’s solid thigh. Kurt’s hand guides his head down to his neck and Blaine places sucking kisses there in between pants.

 

“You.” Blaine practically strangles out. “ Just… just you, please.” His face buried in the damp junction of Kurt’s neck and shoulder, the truth spills out of him and he slumps down just a little more against the other man. Kurt grabs at him like he’s afraid that Blaine’s knees are giving out and when he gets his hands on both sides of Blaine’s face, he plants a kiss on his bitten lips.

“You are the biggest cheeseball, I swear.” He laughs into Blaine’s mouth.

“Yeah?” Blaine chuckles, relief sweet and tart on his tongue. “I don’t know, that seems to be working for you.”

Kurt ducks his head, tries to hide a blush. His whole body feels looser against Blaine’s; his surrender a soft blanket of new privacy around the two of them.

“Shut up.” He mutters, pinching teasingly at the skin of Blaine’s hip peeking out where his shirt has ridden up. Kurt fakes a put upon sigh but his smile is soft and his eyes sparkle with excitement when he asks:

“Where do you want to take me, Blaine Anderson?”

***

The hotel is just a few streets away from the club. It’s not the classiest, but it’s far from seedy. When Blaine had pleaded with Kurt to let him bring him elsewhere, he had not really been thinking rationally. If he had, he would have remembered that he’s no longer in Boston. He no longer lives in a one bedroom apartment on top of small Indian grocery store that makes his place smell like he’s living somewhere much more exotic than Massachusetts. He’s back home, in Westerville and his parents were getting ready for bed when Blaine slipped out for a drink.

When Blaine had mentioned renting a hotel room, Kurt’s face had grown wary. Blaine had felt the sweat making his shirt stick to his back turn cold thinking Kurt might decide that this tryst was much more trouble than it was worth, but they were already in Kurt’s old, well cared-for 2010 Navigator and his expression had wavered before it turned into a smile. _”Better be a clean place…”_ he’d muttered, rolling his eyes but looking like a little boy ready for an adventure as he turned the key in the ignition.

The room is sparsely decorated and cold, like every other hotel room Blaine’s ever been in. He notices Kurt’s eyes roaming across the walls, his face critical; clearly unimpressed by the décor. Blaine smiles fondly and presses him against the door as soon as it’s closed and locked behind them.

“Don’t tell me you were all ready to go in a bar restroom and this room is not good enough for you.” He chuckles against Kurt’s neck.  
Kurt’s answering laugh is a mere trembling exhale that Blaine feels escaping, face pressed to the other man’s throat.

“This seems so different, somehow.” He whispers, as if not to disturb the chilly quietness of the room.

Blaine doesn’t want to ask how because he’s afraid he knows, so he sighs softly against the pale skin of Kurt’s throat. He wants to say that he truly hopes it will be but he bites down on the soft words that probably wouldn’t have come out right anyway and resolves to show instead of tell.

“What do you like?” He murmurs, nosing at Kurt’s neck, his fingers brushing carefully against the fabric of the other man’s shirt.

Kurt settles into a loose sprawl, Blaine’s body crowded close and warm against his.

“What?” he asks, sounding a little overwhelmed and Blaine is perplexed by the change of attitude in Kurt who had been much more confident and aggressive at the bar.

“What do you like?” Blaine asks again, looking up into Kurt’s eyes through his eyelashes.

“What kind of question is that?” Kurt winces when his voice rises into a squeak at the end of the question, but his hands are reaching for the buckle of Blaine’s belt with scrabbling fingers.

Blaine grabs Kurt’s hands and tangles their fingers together.

“A pretty important one, I think.” Blaine answers, stepping closer still. He can feel the cold room spreading wide behind them, feeling too big for this tiny head-spinning moment. He presses his chest and hips against Kurt’s and noses at his throat, behind his ear; butterfly touches.

“I’m sure I like whatever you like, Blaine.” Kurt breathes out, his words longer, dragging against his palate before he pronounces them. His eyes are closed, like he’s soaking up the attention.

Blaine slowly lets go of his hands and strokes them across Kurt’s shoulders, down his arms. He brings them back up to the collar of Kurt’s shirt and makes a questioning noise, reaching for the top button. Kurt licks his lips and nods in tight little jerks. Blaine starts undoing the buttons and notices that the fabric is soft from many washes but the color is still vibrant. The second button is sown on much tighter than the first, like it’s been stitched back in place quickly after coming loose.

“I-I can undo it myself.” Kurt says, and clasps his hands around Blaine’s.

“I’d really like to do it, if it’s alright.” Blaine smiles at him with steady eyes, his voice still quiet.

“Yeah, ok. Hum.”

Blaine places one of Kurt’s hand on his neck, presses it against the sensitive skin there, checking for places where needles could have pricked his fingers, for the calluses of someone who works with their hands. All he feels is soft, soft skin, dainty fingers and smooth, rounded, cared-for nails. When he’s done unbuttoning Kurt’s shirt, Blaine takes Kurt’s hand again, brings the fingertips to his lips and presses a kiss to them.

“You are so lovely.” It’s barely more than an exhale. The pad of Kurt’s fingers against his lips made the truth spill instead of keeping it locked tight and unthreatening inside Blaine’s mouth. Instead of getting an indulgent look at the compliment like he did earlier, Kurt blushes and goes lax, practically crumbles onto Blaine, as if he had pulled on the one piece of him that was keeping all the other pieces together.

“I like the way you look at me. The way you touch me, I really like that.” He coughs softly and then, much quieter: “I like when I can tell someone finds me hot. You… you’ve been pushing _all_ of my buttons all evening long.”

This time, Blaine’s knees almost do give out. He’s been doing this right. _He’s been doing this right._

“Yeah?” he rasps out, throat tight, chest trembling with a feeling of accomplishment. He rocks his hips forward against Kurt’s and the other man moans sweetly and throws his shoulder back, letting his shirt slide down his pale arms and to the floor. Kurt shivers against Blaine when the cold air of the room envelops him and he leans forward into his warm chest. Blaine presses one hand at the small of Kurt’s back to keep him close as they continue rocking into each other. He muffles a gasp into Kurt’s shoulder, followed by a wet sucking kiss.

“Mmh-mh.” Kurt nods against his head. “What do _you_ like?”

 

Blaine grins and leads Kurt to the bed by the hand. He sheds his clothes without much fanfare.

Despite all the things he is self-conscious about, his general physical appearance usually isn’t one of them. He keeps himself in respectable shape and he figures if someone has issues with body hair, his scratchy forearm would keep them away. His face is just a face; it’s all there on display and he is still just as short with or without clothes on. Kurt seems to be another story that Blaine can plainly read across his skin. In the dark room, it’s almost shocking in its paleness, taut as if unused to be bared. When Kurt lies down on the bed, he blends in with the white sheets and Blaine fears for an irrational second that he’ll lose him, so he lets his body find him.

 

“You feel so cold, do you want the covers?” Blaine whispers, rocking his hips against Kurt’s who is twitching restlessly beneath him.

“No it’s ok.” Kurt’s voice is almost meek in between quietly panted breath. His erection is warm against Blaine’s thigh, hardening lazily with the slow friction. Blaine is not really scared when the thought flashes into his head that there’s probably nothing he wouldn’t do if Kurt asked right at that moment. He inhales and bites his lips, he feels heavy on top of the other man, heavy with the responsibility of Kurt’s pleasure and he wants to beg for directions, beg for Kurt to tell him what to do to make this worth it.

“Are you going shy on me?” he asks instead, quiet. No accusation, no teasing, just his voice pooling slowly in the shell of Kurt’s ear.

Kurt arches his back and thrusts up a little against him, no rhythm or purpose, just his body against Blaine’s, seeking.

“I don’t know... You brought me here, I figured I’d let you take the lead.” He sounds just a little too breathless and Blaine grunts softly when their hips coordinate and the friction becomes more satisfying for both of them.

“I don’t… I don’t do this. The bar, the hotel, I- I don’t…” Blaine gives up on the sentence, crumples it and throws it away.  
Kurt’s fingertips dance on one of his sweat-damp temples.

“I kinda figured.” There’s the sound of a smile in his voice and something other than anticipation and arousal sparks again inside of Blaine. “You are such an unusual guy.” Kurt marvels.

Blaine’s chest is just a little bit tight. He feels raw and overwhelmed. He doesn’t know how to do this. He’s never understood; to him, nothing about sex is casual.

Kurt’s hand presses on the small of his back and he makes a strangled noise when their cocks touch. Blaine’s nervousness has kept his erection a little hesitant, but the feel of Kurt against him, fully hard, makes him moan and thrust with more purpose. He kisses Kurt, open and a little sloppy.

“Am I wearing your patience down?” he rasps out.

“Sort of. You talk a lot. I don’t hate it.” The sounds he makes promise Blaine that Kurt really doesn’t hate anything that’s going on and that’s enough reassurance for Blaine right now. He slides down Kurt’s body and a low whine accompanies the unexpected loss of contact.

“Since you won’t say what you like, just tell me if you get any ideas along the way.” Blaine says and he knows he should have made his voice sound dirty or teasing, not honest like the real request that it was, but he really can’t be bothered with making himself palatable for society right now.

“Oh my god!” Kurt sounds half-frustrated and half amused. “Are you serious? You did _not_ really just seriously say that!” but he is shaking with laughter and Blaine grins happily.

 

It hurts his eyes a little bit, but he can’t take them off of Kurt’s face when he wraps his mouth around the other man’s erection and sinks down until it nudges the back of his throat. Kurt’s hand flies to his mouth and he bites his fingers. The gesture, the restraint Kurt is trying to have, makes something in Blaine’s brain fritz. He takes his hands off of Kurt where they’d been framing his sharp hipbones and Kurt thrusts up once, mindlessly. Blaine relaxes. He can’t help a soft gagging sound but he doesn’t move, breathes through it. Kurt suddenly flattens himself to the bed, a few uncontrollable twitches of his hips making him move shallowly between Blaine’s sucking lips. Kurt is looking at him with huge eyes that ask _What are you doing?”_ but Blaine simply shuffles until he finds a more accommodating angle and sinks back down, only stopping when his nose is flat against Kurt’s pubic bone. He breathes calmly through his nose, inhales the close, intimate scent of the other man while he carefully works his throat muscles.

He hasn’t done this in a while, hasn’t done this for many men. He’d almost forgotten how much he loves it; the feeling he gets from giving everything he has- even the mindlessness of breathing - dedicating all of himself to another man.

Blaine reaches up, squeezes Kurt’s free hand and looks at him, trying to convey that it’s ok for him to let loose, to seek his pleasure as he needs, but Kurt shakes his head tightly, still wide-eyed and biting his fingers. Blaine shrugs as much as he can and bobs his head up and down a few times, enjoying the muffled noise slipping past Kurt’s obstructed lips. He pulls off with one last tight suck and wipes at his saliva-covered chin.

 

“Do you have lube?” He asks, voice hoarse.

Blaine straddles Kurt and takes the tube he supplies from one of the seemingly magical pockets of his jeans from his hand with a lazy smile. He slicks his fingers and reaches back behind himself. Kurt’s looking at him, studying his face; one hand gripping Blaine’s thigh, the muscles shifting beneath his palm and clutching fingers and the other wrapped tight around Blaine’s forearm, as if to help steady him. Blaine lets out a breathy grunt as he preps himself, enjoying the slight burn of the initial stretch. He shuffles on his knees and shifts his weight, trying to reach deeper, to make space for Kurt inside of him.

 

A veil of quiet has fallen on the room, only disturbed by the soft noises pouring out of Blaine as he rocks back on his hand. When he slips his fingers out of himself, he reaches for the condom he’d previously placed on the nightstand and slips it on Kurt, slathering it with the remaining lube on his hand. Kurt’s long, skinny arms reach out and bring his face down for a hot, wet kiss. His fingers span Blaine’s cheeks, caress at his temples, smooth away his damp curls. Blaine hears himself whimpering into Kurt’s mouth, eager for more. When they break away, Blaine takes a long inhale and slowly sinks down on Kurt with a low moan.

 

“Oh.” Kurt is all quiet wonder, one hand clenched on Blaine’s hip and the other tangled in the pillow next to his own head. He stares at Blaine’s face.

 

Blaine knows he won’t last long; it’s too good being able to give all of this, all of himself. He feels soothed deep inside from an ache he’s been good at pretending doesn’t exist; the scrambled mess of anxiety in his stomach untangling a little under Kurt’s fingertips. He wishes he could take his slow damn time; make this into a long drawn-out memory, but his breaths punch out of him in unexpected rhythms even though he is the one dictating the pace with shaky rises on his knees and heavy, clumsy thrusts. He fights to keep his eyes open on Kurt’s face as he feels himself soar and soar until he becomes light and loose and uncomplicated. Kurt’s legs twitch restlessly under Blaine, indicating that he is close as well. It’s all over much too soon, Kurt clutching at his arms and thighs through his practically silent orgasm; his eyes scrunched tightly shut and his mouth open, soundlessly gasping stoppered breaths. Blaine tumbles as well, falls from almost much too high. He feels unexpectedly moved by Kurt’s heartbreakingly quiet climax.

 

Blaine is silent for a moment; lets the colors come back to his whitewashed mind to the sound of his and Kurt’s uncontrolled breathing. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to fracture the moment but his shaking limbs barely keep him from collapsing on top of Kurt so he reassembles himself. He grunts softly and sighs low and loud when he shifts up and lets Kurt slip out of him. He swallows, saliva thick in his mouth from his arousal, and leans forwards to pepper unhurried kisses on Kurt’s forehead, jaw, and cheeks. He lingers at the corner of his still panting lips, at the dip in his collar bone where perspiration has gathered. He reaches back and rids Kurt of the condom. It lands in the wastebasket with a sound that makes Kurt flinch slightly beneath him. Blaine shushes him, soothingly, burying his face against his shoulder. He inhales the sharp, sweet scent of his partner’s sweat and cologne in big dizzying gasps that go straight to his head.

 

“Thank you. Thank you.” He whispers against the pale skin that is rapidly turning cold in the inappropriately heated room.

He remains crouched over Kurt for a moment, counting breaths as the muscles of his thighs start to cramp up. After a few minutes of silence, he carefully lies down, pillows his head on Kurt’s chest and feels him huff a weak laugh. Blaine feels the rise and fall of Kurt’s chest slowly grow long and steady and he can’t tell how much time has passed when he raises his head to realize that Kurt has fallen asleep, sweet and trusting. He slowly sits up with his back against the headboard and strokes a hand through the sleeping man’s hair; watches him snuffle a little closer, his face right up against Blaine’s thigh.

“I’ve seen you before. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I figured I manage to be creepy enough without the stalker factor.” Blaine whispers. Kurt is dead weight against him, already snoring quietly. “My first night back I went to the bar and I saw you. Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

Blaine remembers feeling his guts churn staring at Kurt from across the room for the better part of the evening. He’d been so out of sorts that night that he’d barely been able to voice his order to the bartender, never mind strike up a conversation with a gorgeous stranger. Just before he left the bar he’d had to use the restroom and heard the muffled sound of drunken public bathroom sex. He remembers rolling his eyes but being reluctantly aroused by the vocal climax he’d heard through the partition wall He was startled when he’d heard a door bang open and closed loudly as soon as the grunts died down. Blaine could still see the feet and calves of a man kneeling in the next stall. He heard a few bitten off desperate whimpers and strained his ears. There was the clinking of a belt buckle, the rustling of urgent movement; the unmistakable sound of masturbation and the tiny spark of arousal Blaine had felt earlier died down.

 

That first night back in Westerville, Blaine had felt raw, broken open; all his mistakes bared for the world to stare at and it’d been only too easy to imagine how the stranger must have felt, ungratefully abandoned to a desperate jerkoff on the cold, dirty floor of a club restroom; it was release for the mere sake of release, surely there was no real satisfaction or pleasure to be had after being so unceremoniously tossed away.

It’s not until he was halfway back home that he realized the studded leather pants and worn Doc Martens he’d spied below the partition wall were the same he’d stared at for most of the evening on some of the nicest legs he’d ever seen.

“It pissed me off, you have no idea. I was so irrational I got out of my car and kicked a rather impressive dent in the door… and I’m _not_ a violent guy. Just, it seemed so unfair.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “I guess I felt overwhelmed with unfairness by then.”

He falls silent. knows there is no need to tell all those things to an awake Kurt; he’d probably feel incredibly humiliated. His arm tightens around the sleeping man almost unconsciously as he stares at the ceiling. He knows there will be no sleep for him, he feels too tremulous, still. He sighs deeply, feeling oddly pleased. He can’t quite comprehend the complete lack of panic he feels but he decides to embrace it.

 

***

 

The next morning, Kurt floats back to awareness slowly, gradually; trying to keep himself in the safe, comfortable space in between sleep and wakefulness for as long as possible. His body feels lush, loose and light. His lips are stretched into a small, lazy smile against his pillow. He takes a deep breath. His chest feels full to the brim, about to explode, as if he somehow swallowed a helium balloon and he's about to float away.

 

He cracks open his eyes and closes them; lazy early morning sunshine painting abstract designs on the back of his eyelids. He can't remember what he dreamed of, or if he dreamed at all, be he recognizes the wonderful, tremendous feeling of just waking up from an amazing dream, lingering in a state of consciousness where it still might be real. The contentment burrowing deep in his heart is so immense that it will without a doubt last for at least a whole day.

He nuzzles his face deeper into the pillow, as if to try to retrace his path to slumber, to the source of all these feelings. He shuffles a little, delighted by the sensuality of his own two naked legs shifting against one another; he very rarely sleeps in the nude and is somehow surprised at the softness of his own skin. Even the sensation of industrially bleached low thread-count sheets against his body can't seem to put a dent in his inexplicable golden moment.

His thoughts swirl aimlessly inside his head, half-formed and unbothered to be completed. Images from last night surface and Kurt's sleepy smile widen. Soft dark curls between his fingers and kind, kind eyes looking up at him. His body sluggishly goes warm from head to toe, as if it's been doused in heavy, melted caramel. His heart is thudding loudly inside his chest, like it's trying to climb up his throat and out of his mouth. He's boneless, like Blaine had reached deep inside of him and dissolved everything that was coiled, tense and cold.

Kurt feels the sunlight leave his face and owlishly opens his eyes to see the whole room darkened a little by the passage of a cloud obscuring the sun. All his senses come to life, sharpen into focus; wakefulness settling into him decisively.

 

He hears the sound of the shower running and turns to see that he is alone in bed, surrounded only by crumpled sheet and quiet dawn darkness. The door of the adjacent bathroom is ajar and Kurt spies curls of steam slowly billow and die through the opening. Pale sunlight bathes the room once again and Kurt rubs at his face, muffling a breathy laugh. He'd never done this, before; gone home with a guy. Kurt knows that a hastily rented hotel room isn't exactly _home_ , but it feels the same to him, like he'd broken one of the many unwritten rule of _Kurt Hummel's Guide to Casual Sex_ , or something. He swallows against something huge, trembling and nameless suddenly lodged in his throat.

And then he hears it.

 

 _"Before you met me, I was alright but things were kinda heavy, you brought me to life..."_

 

Blaine is singing in the shower. His voice shouldn't sound so clear and near, not while it’s veiled behind a shower curtain, a thick mist of steam and a thin wall, but it does. It's deep and practiced and filled with joy. Kurt is suddenly very attuned to what he hears coming from the other room; the steady fall of the shower water, interrupted by random sluices and splashes that are Blaine's movement under the steady spray. He imagines it in half-formed snapshots in his mind; water pooling at the crook of an elbow, in between fingers resting on a glistening belly. His stomach lurches and Kurt is suddenly so confused that he can't tell if the flip-flopping is pleasant or not. He brings a hand to rest on his chest, where his heart is beating too fast.

 

He can feel his stomach getting heavier and heavier; tiny lead marbles dropping at the bottom of it. First one by one and then more and more rapidly, like a dam's been broken. He frowns at his growing unease and looks around the room, as if looking for the cause of his inexplicable mood shift.

 

 _"You make me feel like I'm living a teenage dream, the way you turn me on. I can't sleep. Let's run away and don't ever look back."_

 

Kurt's head snaps back to the bathroom door. He hears hints of laughter layered with the lyrics and a few words are garbled; Blaine's mouth undoubtedly filling with shower water. He almost, _almost_ doesn't recognize the song. This utterly, utterly forgettable song from his own teenage years.

 

"Oh."

 

The last of Kurt's _stupid, stupid_ , good mood crumbles around him. He whips the sheets away from his body and lets the cold air of the hotel room envelop him in goose bumps instead.

 

"Oh," he utters again, as if struck dumb.

 

He stands up too quickly and gets dizzy. When his head stops spinning, he's standing, immobile, useless and naked in the middle of the room. Articles of clothing, both his and Blaine's, are strewn all around his feet that suddenly feel as though they are bolted in place. In fact, he feels so heavy that he looks down to make sure that he isn't sinking through the carpeted floor.

 

"Shit. What is this?" he berates himself, struggling to breath.

 

He quickly grabs for his crumpled clothes and slips his arms through the sleeves of his dress shirt, feeling it settle uncomfortably on his shoulders, as if laden with shame. He refuses to acknowledge his trembling hands as he buttons his shirt, casting quick glances toward the door to the bathroom. He can still hear Blaine belting out that _awful, awful goddamn stupid_ song and he lets out a dark, self-reprobating laugh.

 

"This is the most ridiculous- what is this? What are you doing you stupid, stupid-" he grinds the words out between his teeth, knowing that he must be silent but unable to stop the barrage of agitated, angry half-formed sentences.

Black clouds of self-recrimination and _fear_ are rising, rising inside of him; threatening to choke him, to submerge everything.He buttons his jeans and pats his pockets frantically; making sure that he has his phone, keys and wallet.

 

"You just let some guy take you to a- a fucking hotel room. How stupid does that even sound when you say it aloud, Hummel?" he reprimands himself, still powerless against the bitter words that just keep spurting forth from his mouth. Heaves and heaves of uncontrollable, bitter verbal abuse. "-and wake up feeling like, like- What? What the hell is wrong with you?"

He shakes his head and clenches his jaw shut, grabbing his jacket. He hears the water shutting off as he is stepping through the door. He pauses for one, painful, dizzy moment in the doorjamb, casting a glance towards the room before making a quick exit.

 

***

 

The drive back to Lima is done in complete silence except for the smooth hum of the Navigator’s engine and a few swear words that slip past Kurt’s bitten lips. He stops at the Lima Bean for a grande non-fat mocha that sluices down his throat in only a few scalding, punishing gulps. He also grabs a couple of lattes; he’s not expected at the garage on a Saturday but he feels so down on himself that he decides work is the only thing that is going to keep his mind off of what he did last night. It’s early, but Vic and Fernando are already there, taking care of the work that hasn’t been finished yesterday. Kurt knows that they have a few oil changes and a tire rotation scheduled for later today. He sighs and composes himself; grits his teeth as he enters the garage.

 

“Oh. Hey, _Boss_. Didn’t expect you here today. ” Vic drawls, barely lifting his eyes from the entrails of a beat-up Ford.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” Kurt says, cheerfully, ignoring the way ‘Boss’ always sounds like an insult whenever it comes out of Vic’s mouth. “I know Vic, but I felt like getting my hands dirty today!”

Kurt goes to the locker room to change into his coverall, but this early, the garage is very quiet and he can hear Vic muttering, still elbow deep in the truck’s displayed engine.

“Get his hands dirty? I’m pretty sure that’s what he does on his days off anyway, if you know what I mean.”

There’s a clattering sound.

“Vic, man, stop it. His daddy would punch your lights out if he was still alive to hear you talk like that. You and me both, we practically helped Burt raise that kid.”

 

“I’m just saying, ‘Nando, that you gotta admit this place ran much smoother when I was in charge.”

“That’s bull and you know it! You might be an excellent mechanic but you can barely count to ten you dumb fool. And you knew it wasn’t forever, anyway. It’s been years, Vic. It’s time you get over it.”

“You’re just a brown nose, Fernando. You were the same with Burt before his heart attack and you were the same with me when I took over and you’ve been the same with Kurt since he’s been old enough to take this place from me.”

“This place was never yours! You just stepped up and took care of it until Kurt was old enough to legally inherit it! I don’t know why he decided to stay and not just let you buy it, okay? Obviously he cares for this shop as much as you do.” Kurt heard Fernando sigh heavily. “We’ve been having the same fight every week for five years, Vic. Give it up.”

“If I quit, then Alex would quit. Rob too. Then you’d have to quit too because this place would go out of business and you have three lil’ kids to feed.”

“How can you even talk like that? Burt was your friend, Vic. How can you want to see his shop, his kid, go under?”

Vic is the one to sigh now and Kurt hears him putting down his wrench.

“I don’t ‘Nando. I’ve been working here practically my whole life. I just… I just wish Burt was still around, you know.”

“Well, that’s something you, me and Kurt can agree on.”

The familiar sounds of an engine being taken apart are heard again and Kurt starts to change, practically ripping his shirt off in anger. It’s not like he doesn’t know that Vic’s been questioning his competences and throwing slurs at him behind his back (and sometimes even in his face), but it still makes him blind with rage to hear him talk about his Dad.

Vic had always been nice to Kurt, until Kurt came of age and decided not to sell the shop. Then everything had shifted. Every other word became a sly jab at Kurt, his skills at mechanics, his sexuality. What infuriated Kurt the most was that Vic was right; if he left, most of the staff would leave with him. There is a sort of pack mentality among the few employees of Hummel Tires and Lube and despite Kurt being owner and manager for over five years, Vic is the one with the most experience. He talks loudly and easily influences his co-workers.

 

Kurt pulls on crisply pressed coveralls, his moves jerky, and he only becomes more infuriated when he notices light, fingertip-sized bruises on his pale arms.

 

“Fuck!” he shouts and collapses into the bench situated in the middle of the locker room, holding his head in his hands. “Get yourself together, Hummel.” He grits between his clenched teeth.

 

Kurt takes a deep breath and stands back up. He goes to his locker and chooses the most flamboyant brooch he can find and pins it to his coveralls. He pins a fake smile on his face as well as he walks back into the garage.

 

“Oh! That’s right! I picked up some lattes for you guys on my way over, I’ll go get them from my car.”

Fernando looks up from the tools he’s wiping and smiles warmly at Kurt, nodding his gratitude silently.

“Regular coffee would have been A-OK, _Boss_ , but thanks, I guess.” Vic says, apparently still too busy to look up from his work.

 

Once he’s out of sight, Kurt’s fake smile dissolves into a scowl and he has to remind himself for the tenth time that day that he is _not_ a teenager anymore, or he’d have spat in Vic’s cup.

 

It’s a slow Saturday, they get only one walk-in and Fernando takes care of it in under an hour. The other appointments go as planned and Kurt decides to leave early, letting Vic handle the rest of the day, as scheduled. When he gets home, he sighs as he lets his shoulder bag drop to the floor. The quiet darkness of the house is a crushing weight all around him, trying to push him to the floor.

 

He showers, conditions his hair, exfoliates and moisturizes; pays particular attention to his hands. He gives himself a mini-manicure, just to keep his nails rounded and his cuticles in check. He stands naked in front of his mirror, immobile. His arms are too long and thin; he doesn’t look like a man who daily hauls heavy car parts but rather like a man made out of stretched toffee. He sucks in his stomach, counts his ribs. Inventories his moles, wishes he could dust the freckles off of his shoulders.

 

He stares at himself for almost an hour, looking for the man that Blaine, honesty bleeding all over his features, had described as lovely. All he finds are shortcomings and a gaunt face with eyes like sucking sea whirlpools. He sighs, turns away and slips into his robe, thumbing the hickey on his neck. He folds the memory of last night in two, tucks the feelings it brings neatly into the crease and puts it in a creaky drawer at the back of his mind. In a neat pile with the smell of his mother, the nervous giddiness of stepping onto a stage in front of a crowd, his dad’s strong, capable hands showing him how to replace a carburetor, the sound of his own voice soaring, clear and high. He goes to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of herbal tea; he’s got to detox his system from those drinks he’s had the night before.

Later that night, primly tucked into the silk pajamas he still enjoys, in between perfectly turned over quality bed sheets, he listens to the silence of his house. Although there is only void where he feels a headache should be, it takes a long time for him to fall asleep.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Part One for warnings and notes.

Kurt is twenty one and a few days when he gets to experience his first sexual encounter.

Before his decision to stay in Lima, he’d always figured he’d simply seal away his dreams of romance and awakening curiosity for physicality tight into an iron box and patiently wait until college. Eighteen came and went and Kurt found himself with a lot of responsibilities that thankfully distracted him a little from the unfairness of having to keep his desires locked up and away from sight.

When he finally turns twenty-one he waits a few days, tries to convince himself that it’s not as big a deal as he’s making it out to be, that he hasn’t been waiting for this. He waits for the few days it takes for his patience to snap as he struggles to untangle the trembling knot of anxiety and anticipation stuck in his throat.

He wishes he didn’t feel like he’s been waiting all his life, but the fact of the matter is that he’s had a lot of time to think about this moment. First about the who, then he got older and wondered about the how and then he got older still and dreamed and longed for the when. He’s never thought about the consequences a dirty nightclub restroom floor could have on a nice pair of jeans if he were to kneel in front of another man. In fact, it doesn’t even cross his mind the moment his knees do touch the hard surface. His head is too full of _Finally, finally, finally!_ and _Oh, please, let me get it right._ and there’s even a little voice at the back of his head chanting _Thank you, thank you for letting me._.  
Afterwards, he has semen and saliva running down his chin. He’s panting noisily and every sharp inhale of air tickles uncomfortably the soreness at the back of his throat. His scalp aches dully from having his -undoubtedly messed up- hair pulled. His whole body is still tingling from his own embarrassing climax.  
He can’t help himself, the words are out of his mouth before his overwhelmed brain can catch them and shove them in the dark untouched place where he hides all his unvoiced doubts.

 

“How was it?” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been shouting. Shouting all is life for someone to look at him and find him desirable and finally, finally he’s been heard.

 

He mentally berates himself for how needy and young he must look to this guy, this man, whose name he hasn’t quite caught, drowned by the beat of the loud, mindless music pulsating through the crowded club. The man is slowly tucking himself back into his designer jeans, his movement unhurried, his posture relaxed and content; shoulders slouched and thrown back, head lolling a little. At Kurt’s inquisitive words, fondness cuts through the post-orgasmic haze in his heavy-lidded dark eyes.

“Was it your first time?” His voice his low and soft, as if filtered through a heavy velvet curtain.

Kurt averts his gaze and bites his bruised lower lip. He shuffles self-consciously, on his knees still. He can feel the mess he made- from rubbing himself through his pants in the heat of the moment- going cold and sticky in his tight boxer briefs.  
He hears the man above him exhale and feels fingertips on his face, brushing a few loose strands of hair away from his eyes.

“C’mere, get up.” The stranger offers both his hands and Kurt takes them gratefully. His knees hurt from kneeling on the cold hard floor and his legs are wobbly.

The other man, only slightly taller, gently cradles the back of Kurt’s head and brings them cheek to cheek, his stubbles deliciously prickling Kurt’s sensitive skin, making him shiver a little.

 

“You were hot, baby. You rocked my world.” The whisper, low and dirty, is followed by a quick, noisy, sucking kiss to his earlobe. “Thanks.” The man adds before he takes a step back. He smiles, wide and content and ruffles Kurt hair. “Oh, and don’t forget to...” he mimes wiping the corner of his mouth. “...before you get back out there. See you around.” He winks and unlocks the bathroom stall door to let himself out and push the door back closed behind him.

 

Kurt puts the lock back in place and presses his back to the door, still a little unsteady on his legs. He can feel the excited pounding of his heart in his chest, of his blood against his temples. He doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know he must be sporting an impressive blush. He wipes his chin and cheeks with the back of his hand, feeling the shape of his face, that uncontrollable smile. It’s almost like being in love, the elation singing through his body, except that this feeling is for him, all for him. He almost doesn’t recognize the warm slow burn in his chest. It’s nothing extraordinary, but when he finally places it, he feels at once comforted and puzzled. How has he almost forgotten what accomplishment feels like? He’s gotten a head start on life, has chosen the path he will follow and already has knocked down a few miles on the great racetrack he imagines life to be, but blowing a stranger in a public restroom feels like more of an achievement?

On that first drive back to Lima from Westerville in the quiet dawn, Kurt can still taste stubborn victory. He’s made it; he’s survived innumerable taunts and slurs and he’s going to make every last one of them count. All those years of being called a cock-sucker and so many other ugly words, they almost don’t matter anymore. Not if it means he gets to do _this_. Not if it means he gets to feel like this, to make someone else- another man- feel like this. Not for the first time, Kurt is glad he does not believe in heaven; he’d hate for his dad to be looking down at him, right now. For him to see that something as dirty and disgraceful as sex is what woke up the pride that had been asleep inside him even while he was keeping the family business alive. Kurt realizes that for a few minutes he’d forgotten. On his knees, submitting to the needs he’d let starve for years in hope that they would die, he’d forgotten that everything around him inevitably turns into shame. Even as the elation he’d been experiencing is starting to taste a little like ash, he knows he’ll be back to the Alterno.

He spends the next few years desperately chasing after that feeling. How can he not?

 

***

 

Kurt Hummel hasn’t been a teenager for what feels like a really, really long time. Heck, he practically wasn’t even a teenager when he _was_ in his teens. He is a mechanic, a business manager, his father’s son. He went from being the only out gay teen at William McKinley High to being the only single gay man in Lima. (He’s visited Rachel Berry’s dads once in fit of lonely hopelessness a little bit before he turned twenty one and even though they were very nice and welcoming, Kurt came back home that day bitter and confused. Not only had they prattled on and on about how successful their daughter was in New York, but their casual happiness had made Kurt long for something he’d already long ago buried the possibility of.)

Kurt is a homeowner. In the summer, he slathers on SPF 60 sunscreen. He purposefully avoids looking at the neighbouring families as they climb into their cars to drive to church when he mows the lawn on every Sunday morning. He puts on work gloves to rake the leaves and cover the plants and bushes in the fall, shovels the snow out of his driveway in the winter and climbs up a ladder to clear the gutters, clean the façade and windows in the spring. He furiously scrubs at the unimaginative, hateful graffiti when they sometimes appear on his garage door in angry red and unforgiving black and even sometimes in mocking pink. He is a sensible home owner and although he felt he only participated to the suburban song and dance in a somehow sarcastic manner at first, he found he was soon indoctrinated.

He doesn’t have any complaints to formulate about the two years he spent living with his aunt and uncle. They are nice, proper people who sat and awkwardly waved at his graduation, but he’d always been fiercely independent and he found that the chore of caring for a house and a property satisfied a need for control that had felt like an unreachable itch while he’d been tucked into the bland bedroom his relatives had arranged for him after his father’s death.

Kurt is a slightly watered down fashionista who had to sell some of his favourite designer pieces when he first found himself on his own, inexpertly juggling a house and a small business during a recession. He is an orphan, has been since he was sixteen years old. He is not and never really was Finn Hudson’s step-brother, no matter what the gangly man says when he comes by the shop, his eyes swimming with pity and regrets. Burt and Carole had never really been able to mend things after Burt threw Finn out of his home for being rude to his son- which thankfully led Kurt to spend more and more time at the garage.  
Kurt, at 24, is almost exactly what he was at 22, 20, 18; a stagnant observer to the passing of time. He’s an accomplished man, he guesses; not the abandoned work in progress he sometimes feels like.

What Kurt is not is stupid. He knows he sometimes still is the talk of the town and it makes his skin crawl when he thinks of his name being mentioned in his absence, but he’s learnt to accept that there are some things you can’t fight. The only person you can control is yourself.

 

***

 

“Good morning, _Brett_. I’ll have a grande non-fat mocha, please.” Kurt says, keeping his nose high because he’s pretty sure there are categories of Lima losers and business owners must be above community college drop-out baristas, at least he hopes.

Brett smiles widely as he hands over Kurt’s change and his candid kindness makes Kurt feel a little ashamed of his knee-jerk haughtiness. As he walks to the end of the counter to wait for his order, he watches his ex-classmate whistle to himself while he prepares Kurt’s beverage. Kurt tilts his head, observing his practiced movements; the way he spins the spoon around his fingers and reaches for things without having to look; the way he makes preparing coffee look like a choreographed dance. Kurt wonders if he looks like that when he’s under a hood, handling tools.

 

“Grande non-fat mocha for Kurt!” Brett’s voice is so peppy that it actually _sounds_ like caffeine. “Here you go, have a nice one today!”

Kurt takes the warm carton cup.

“Hey, Brett,” he asks “Do you like working here?”

 

The other man blushes a little but his face remains open and bright, nothing like the closed-off, smelly, absent-minded guy who sat beside Kurt in English class, junior year.

“I know what I’m doing and I’m good at it.” The redhead says with a shrug. “What more could I ask for?”  
Kurt gives a small, tight smile, nods slowly and thanks him for the coffee.

“My pleasure, see you soon!”

Brett goes to greet the next person in line and Kurt distractedly makes his way to the exit. His steps, however, falter to an abrupt halt when he hears the next customer recite his order.

“Hi! I’ll have a medium drip and a biscotti. Actually, can you make that two biscotti? Thanks.”

That voice has swirled in and around his head enough for Kurt to recognize it instantly and his first reaction is to clutch his jacket shut tight. He looks down at himself and grimaces at his steel-toed work boots and what looks like ill-fitting, navy slacks made from a horrible synthetic fabric- still it’s better than oil-stained coveralls. He should flee. He really should _want_ to flee but instead he just stares at the back of Blaine’s head until his eyes feel painfully dry.

 _I was starting to think that I’d dreamt you up._

“Hi! I didn’t think I’d see you around here.” Kurt blurts out. He has this crazy idea that initiating the conversation will make him feel in control. He’s wrong.

“Kurt! Hi!”

“Huh. Hi.” Kurt hears himself say. He feels his cheeks bunch up and knows he’s wearing an answering smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Blaine nods and his brow scrunches and smoothens in a way that makes his eyes say ‘Well, yeah’. Kurt feels a little tense all over; his body ready to bolt but his feet stuck to the tiled floor of the coffee shop.

“Medium drip for Blaine!”

Blaine raises his index finger in the universal gesture for ‘one moment’ and turns to grab his cup and thank Brett. When he turns back to Kurt, his features light up again, the same as before; like he didn’t expect Kurt to still be there. If both his hands weren’t busy clutching at his jacket and coffee cup, Kurt’s pretty sure he would have smacked himself. Of course he’d be unsure; Kurt ran out on him.

“Well this is awkward.” Kurt mutters, mainly to himself.  
“It doesn’t have to be.” The words tumble out of Blaine’s mouth as he takes a half step towards Kurt. “I mean… I’m really glad to see you again.” His smile is very much still there, but it looks like it’s holding in place with nothing more than a thread. “Do you maybe want to sit and have coffee? With me, that is.”

Kurt bites his lips. He shuffles his feet and his boots squeak embarrassingly.

“Actually, I have somewhere to be. But it was nice to see you again.” He feels like there is more air than actual sound in his voice; that’s how hard it is for him to utter those words, incomprehensibly.

“Oh.” Blaine’s face falls a little but he quickly picks his smile up. He looks like he wants to ask something else, but his shoulder sag slightly and he just keeps on smiling; Kurt’s rejection an awkward puddle of shame at their feet.

“I guess I should be going.” Kurt murmurs, staring at the floor. He makes to leave, his feet heavy and an enormous sigh gathering in his lungs.

“Wait!”

Blaine’s hand on his arm is not gripping or forceful at all; if Kurt wanted he could ignore it and walk on. It simply gently rests there on his forearm, silently begging for just a little bit more of his attention. Kurt falters.

“Can I give you my number?” Blaine asks and when Kurt gathers enough courage to raise his gaze to Blaine’s face the other man is looking at him intently, his eyes searching. Kurt opens his mouth and his big sigh tumbles out shakily. He moves his jaw, hopes words will come to him, but nothing but air comes out.

Blaine’s hand falls away.

“Nevermind.” He smiles crookedly. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.” Blaine looks and sounds earnestly regretful.

“This is… I…” Kurt tries.

Blaine makes his smile even warmer in a visible effort to make him feel better and guilt twists in Kurt’s gut.

“Don’t. It’s alright, I understand. Have a nice day, Kurt.”

 

Blaine turns to makes his way through the maze of scattered tables and settles at one, taking a laptop out of the bag slung over his shoulder. It’s almost physically painful for Kurt to make his legs move and take him out of the café, to his car. He climbs into the Navigator, places his coffee in the cup holder and doesn’t turn the key in the ignition. Instead, he looks straight ahead and clutches at the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He can see Blaine through the coffee shop’s large windows, sitting and jiggling his leg under the table. After barely a minute the twitchy motion stops and Blaine’s shoulders drop. He sags forward and bangs his forehead against the table top.  
Kurt sighs and feels his hands loosen and slip to his sides. He slumps down and rests his head against the steering wheel.

 _What’s wrong with me?_ , he thinks.  
And, much quieter, laden with shame: _At least he didn’t see the coveralls…_

 

***

 

Work, that day, is miserable. Kurt can’t make sense of his behavior around Blaine and it infuriates him. Vic easily picks up on Kurt’s bad mood and does nothing to improve it. Fernando tries to play mediator and Rob and Alex mostly walk around the shop with their tails between their legs, curious to see the situation play out, but unwilling to get involved.

It’s late afternoon, when sweat drips into Kurt’s eyes from looking up at the elevated tiny Japanese car he’s replacing a tire on. His coveralls feel stuffy and stifling and he just can’t wait for this day to be over. He hears Fernando greeting someone at the front desk and, closer, Vic’s recognizable, heavy footsteps.

 

“Hey _Boss_ , you sure that’s the right wrench for that kind of job?” He asks obnoxiously.

Kurt freezes and asks, without turning to look at Vic:

“Excuse me?”

“I said: are you sure that’s the right wrench, _Boss_? I’d use something heavier but I can see how that could put a strain on your dainty wrists.”

Kurt’s hand goes loose around the tool and it drops to the floor with an ominous clanging sound. He very slowly turns around to face Vic as his face contorts into a vicious sneer.

“Are you implying that I don’t know how to change a tire, Vic?” His voice starts out low and dangerous. He feels anger licking up at the walls of his throat, like he’s about to spit fire. “Are you suggesting that your boss, the manager of this place, the son of ‘Hummel’ in ‘Hummel _Tires_ and Lube’ can’t change a fucking tire, Vic? Could you please clear up for me if that is what you are implying, here, you pitiful grease stain?” He’s shouting by the end of his tirade, his voice reverberating against the walls of the workshop.

“What did you just call me, you self-entitled little bastard?” Vic spits back, taking a few slow steps towards Kurt.

“Aw, come on, Vic. You call me a faggot all the time behind my back and you don’t have the courage to say it to my face? Won’t it make you feel better? ‘Cause God knows the only way you have to make yourself feel important is by putting other people down.”

“You little shit.” Vic hisses, raising his fist to hit. Kurt doesn’t move, he continues to stare at the burly man, raising his jaw in defiance. Vic simply glares back for a few seconds, then drops his fist to his side with a vehement, reverberating “Fuck!”

Fernando hollers and runs to step in between the two of them, his hands raised as if ready to stop a fistfight, but Vic is already stalking away.

“Jesus, Kurt! Are you alright, kiddo?” Fernando asks, panic etched across his tan features.

“I’m not a kid!” Kurt barks, hating how petulant he sounds. He feels himself deflating and looks around the shop. Rob and Alex are staring at him, still seemingly shell-shocked at his outburst. There was thankfully no customer to witness the fight, except… Kurt turns to the front desk and sees the man Fernando had been greeting before the confrontation occurred.

Blaine Anderson is staring at him, mouth agape. His key chain makes a melodic sound as it slips from his fingers and lands on the concrete floor.

 

***

 

No one raises an eyebrow when Kurt urgently takes Blaine into his office and closes the door. Except for Fernando, none of his employees are particularly apt at customer service so they’re probably out there, talking about him in hushed voices and thinking he’s just going to do some damage control. Kurt sits Blaine down in the chair across his desk while he paces a little in the small room. Blaine looks half shocked and half amused, sitting into the tiny swivelling office chair. Heat rises to Kurt’s cheeks and he can barely look at the other man. He’d brewed a fresh batch of coffee before he’d set to work on the tire replacement so he turns around and busies himself pouring some into a generic white mug with the garage’s logo on it, his unwashed hands leaving dark streaks behind.

“Would you like coffee? Yeah, you like drip coffee. You’ll have coffee.”

“You know my coffee order?”

He turns back to Blaine and places the cup and a napkin in front of him with just a little bit too much force.

“Of course I do, you were right behind me at the coffee shop.” Kurt tries to make his voice sound light, like maybe he can convince Blaine that none of it is a big deal, but he knows he probably just sounds breathless and shaky. He sits at his desk and stares at his blackened hands for a second.

“Did you follow me here?”

“What? No! I was around and I decided to stop in because my car has this small dent in the driver’s side door. I was wondering if you did body work. And here you are.”

Kurt nods and sighs.

“Yes, here I am. Well, I’m sorry you had to witness that.” He says quietly.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that.” Blaine answers.

“It’s 2018. One would think modern thinking has made it somewhere _near_ Ohio and yet there are still knuckle-dragging apes making my life a living hell.” Kurt says venomously. Spite, his oldest and most effective weapon, bursts out of him

 _Why must you keep showing him the worst sides of you_ the thought is fragile, barely there.

 _Why must you care what side of you he knows?_ this one is louder, rebarbative.

Kurt hunches his shoulders and clenches his teeth, hopes he can open his mouth again without spilling more parts of himself to this near stranger.

“Well, pardon me because I’m sure this is going to sound patronizing, but I’m glad you can stand up for yourself.” Blaine says.

Kurt shrugs but he feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards. This really _is_ the awkward babbling man Kurt met at the Alterno a few nights ago. He feels strange and itchy; uncomfortable at the thought that one of his dirty little nightclub hookup is sitting right here in his office, in broad daylight, when his employees are in the next room. From across the desk, though, Blaine is still smiling at him, sunny and soft and Kurt swallows with difficulty. It’s not a _I’ve seen you naked_ smile. It’s a _You’re wonderful_ smile and despite the fact that he’s spent the last few days trying to convince himself otherwise, he knows too well that Blaine is nothing like his usual nameless, shameful restroom encounters.

 

“What are you doing in Lima, Blaine? I’d know if you were from around here.”

Blaine blushes a little and rubs his hands together.

“I’m from Westerville, actually, but I’m coffee shop hopping.”

“Coffee shop hopping?” Kurt deadpans.

“Yeah, hopping around from coffee shop to coffee shop.” Blaine explains.

“No, I’d gathered that. I’m just wondering why you’d drive for approximately an hour and a half for coffee. What do you do for a living, Blaine Anderson?” He knows he sounds invasive, but he’s confused and he’s pretty sure that turning people’s life upside down isn’t remunerated work.

Blaine fidgets with his napkin and offers a small smile.

“Nothing at the moment.” He pauses and Kurt raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to go on. “I was… am a high school teacher. I was a teacher, I mean. I am… was. Am. Was. Am… I was a teacher, but not anymore. Though I guess I could still be one, if I wanted.”

Kurt wants to say _Wow, you just open your mouth and everything sort of falls out, doesn’t it?_ but instead he goes for:

“So the confusion is about whether or not you still _want_ to be a teacher, not about your qualifications?”

Blaine nods once and changes the subject rather obviously.

“And you own an auto shop!” Blaine exclaims, pointing to the nameplate on Kurt’s desk. The sentence is laden with so much awe that either Kurt misheard and Blaine actually said _And you only paid 20$ for a McQueen jacket at the thrift store!_ or Blaine doesn’t have a very clear idea of what an auto shop is.

“Yep. I am _am_ a mechanic. No confusion there.” He holds his grease-streaked hands up, palms towards Blaine, as if to prove his point. His smile feels tight on his face, like it’s been glued on top of his actual lips and his skin pulls when he moves. Not for the first time in his life, Kurt feels like a worthless ingrate for not being able to say it with pride.

“That’s amazing! You’re so young and you’re already a successful business owner!”

Kurt picks at his nails, stares at them for a moment.

“I inherited it, the garage.” He says, looking up at Blaine briefly, then back down, hoping that by avoiding eye contact, he’d avoid questions.

“Oh.” Is what Blaine says. From the corner of his eyes, Kurt can see him move in little twitches; he wants to scratch the scab but knows it’ll only make it bleed. “Well it sure seems to be in good hands.” Is what Blaine settles for, titling his head to establish eye contact with Kurt’s lowered gaze.

“Says the only person who’s witnessed my only moment of unprofessionalism.” Laughs Kurt. “Anyways, shall I look at your car?”

Blaine leads him to the parking lot where he left his gorgeous muscle car.

“Wow. I didn’t expect that. [Cherry red ’59 Chevrolet ](http://i490.photobucket.com/albums/rr261/fannietheflaky/degrees%20of%20freedom/Blaines59chevvy.jpg)? Really?” He raises an eyebrow at Blaine who smiles crookedly and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Yeah. I rebuilt it with my dad the summer I turned sixteen. He officially gave it to me when I graduated high school. I’m pretty sure he’d seriously consider filicide if he saw this.” Blaine rolls his eyes.

 

Sure enough, there’s a slight dent in the driver’s side door; nothing that can’t be fixed. Blaine crouches down and strokes his hand over the indentation, then looks back up at Kurt. He doesn’t offer an explanation and Kurt doesn’t ask.

 

“You know what?” He says once he’s stood back up. “I’m not so sure I want to get it fixed after all.”

Kurt detaches his gaze from the car to frown at Blaine in confusion.

“I don’t want to sell it or anything- my father would definitely have my hide if I did that- but I think I’ll store it for a while and buy a new one. Do you have storage space here?”

“Huh, yeah, yeah. I have five storage spaces in the back of the shop and only one is taken right now, but Blaine, this is a really great car and it’s an easy fix.” Kurt points out.

“I know, but I want a car that can take me places. I feel like this one can only take me back here.”  
Kurt knows that Blaine doesn’t mean Hummel Tires and Lube’s parking lot, but rather dull, flat Ohio. How can a 45 000 square miles state feel like the tiniest, most confining of straightjackets? Still, the statement makes something cold and slithering drop at the bottom of Kurt’s stomach. Something that feels a lot like dread.

“Oh. You’re leaving the _Heart of it all_?” he asks, feigning disinterest.

Blaine shrugs.

“I don’t know. Most of the time, I feel like I could be happy anywhere, but…” he falls silent.

“…but sometimes you think this is the only place where you can feel truly miserable?” Kurt asks quietly, kicking a stone that skitters on and on across the wide parking lot.

Blaine lets out a mirthless chuckle.

“I was going to say that I feel this is not where I could be the happiest, but I guess yours is valid as well.”

They both stare at horizon, at the late afternoon slowly declining sun, in silence, but when Kurt turns back to face the other man, he finds Blaine looking at him, eyes warm.

“See,” Blaine says quietly. “It doesn’t have to be awkward.”

 

Kurt draws in a surprised breath and for a second he’s sure he’s going to tense up, but instead he huffs out a tiny laugh and feels a smile almost as wide as the endless Midwestern plains stretch across his face. A little embarrassed, he playfully shoves Blaine’s shoulder and tells himself maybe he’ll let Blaine give him his number if he offers again.

 

After he asks Blaine once more if he’s sure he wants to store the car instead of having it fixed, Kurt parks it in one of the storage spaces at the back of the deserted shop but doesn’t throw a tarp over it yet. The late afternoon has blended into early evening and the guys have gone home. As he passes through the working area, Blaine in tow, Kurt bends down and picks up the wrench he’d carelessly dropped earlier, during his shouting match with Vic, and puts it back in place in his dad’s toolbox with a sigh. _What a day._

 

“Are they all… difficult? Your employees, I mean.” Blaine asks after watching him silently for a minute.

“No it’s just the one, but the others are easily impressed. He’s just a big bully, really. Mostly, he barks loud but he doesn’t bite.”

“Well he seemed close enough to biting earlier, if you don’t mind me saying. I was kind of worried for a second.”

“He would never hit me.” Kurt states with a shrug.

 

Blaine nods and Kurt realizes that they’re standing very close. He doesn’t dare blink for the fear that if he closes his eyes for even a second, images of Blaine moving, sweating and panting on top of him will appear behind his shut lids. He swallows thickly as nervousness rattles in his chest. He feels even more out of sorts than he did that night in the cold hotel room. At the club, things are easy, rehearsed but this is different.

“Do you… do you want to come back to my place?” he asks in a whisper. He hates how unsure his hand is as he places it on Blaine’s collarbone. The other man smiles and closes his eyes. He leans into the touch and Kurt thinks he’s about to be kissed in the middle of the garage, but instead Blaine picks Kurt’s hand up, places a small kiss on it and lets it go.

“I think we shouldn’t.” He says.

Stung, Kurt takes a step back, trying to put space between the two of them because he would be thinking so clearly, so much more clearly if Blaine wasn’t so close, if Blaine wasn’t there at all. He bites his lips against the panicked words that are gathering in his mouth. His first instinct is to grasp at what’s just slipped through is fingers and he knows begging _I could blow you in the backseat of your car!_ is not the appropriate response.

“Kurt.” Blaine steps forward. “I don’t mean that I don’t want to. I really, _really_ want to. I just mean that we should wait.” Blaine sounds a little pleading, like he’s afraid Kurt will bolt.

“Oh. Wait.” Kurt repeats flatly.

“I think last time we rushed into things and it was…” Blaine steps even closer and lowers his voice. “It was lovely but I keep thinking about how much better it would be if we got to know each other. I… I gathered that it’s not quite how you usually do things, but I’d really like you to give me a chance. If you decide that this is not what you want, then I’m sure we’d be great friends; nothing lost”

 

Kurt feels wound too tight; his teeth clenched and his throat closed up. He can barely breathe so he gives up on words. He’s not sure what he’s agreeing to, but he merely nods, unable to look into Blaine’s too earnest eyes for how bare and raw they make him feel.

Blaine steers the conversation into more comfortable territories again, talks and smiles until the tension has mostly melted away and all that remains is the not unpleasant, too full feeling inside Kurt’s chest. By the time they exchange phone numbers, the sky has darkened outside and Kurt asks Blaine how he’ll get back to Westerville. Blaine tosses Kurt a carefree smile.

“I’m pretty much a certified drifter by now, I’m sure I’ll be just fine. Good night, Kurt.” He says with a wink and a wave as he exits the garage.

Kurt buries his face in his hand to hide the uncontrollable goofy smile he feels spreading on his face as soon as the door is closed behind Blaine

 

***

 

The next morning, Kurt texts Blaine.

 **Kurt:** No, really. How did you get home last night?  
 **Blaine:** There’s a car rental place two streets away from your garage. Were you worried? :)

 

He huffs a laugh and looks up from his cellphone when the garage’s line rings. Kurt doesn’t particularly feel like running into Vic so he sighs in relief when the call turns out to be for a tow job; a woman who’s just been pulled over by the cops needs immediate repairs to her broken muffler if she wants to avoid getting fined for noise pollution. Kurt stuffs his phone in his pocket and grabs the key to the tow truck.

 

When he gets there, he greets the thirty-something, skinny woman leaning back against her white Sedan and does a quick job of chaining the car to the truck. Something about her strikes him; the way she carries herself, her casual clothes meshing with her elegant accessories. Kurt still has the eye for stylish people; they’re usually a rare sight for sore eyes in the middle of a work day at the garage.

 

“Where are you from?” He asks her once she climbs in next to him, knowing from experience that small talk usually makes a tow job less stressful for the customers.

He can see her eyelashes fluttering behind her sunglasses.

“Real close, by Shawnee township.”

“Really?”

Her smile is slow, her teeth almost blindingly white.

“What? I don’t look like I’m from around here?”

Kurt shrugs.

“I don’t know, I just always have a hard time imagining people living here of their own free will.”

She raises an artfully plucked eyebrow.

“Does someone keep you shackled in a basement on your days off?”

Kurt feels his cheeks heat up.

“N-no. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, honey.” She pauses. “Actually, I’m not originally from around here. I was born and raised in New York.”

Kurt does a double take, tries to be subtle about it.

“…Really? That’s… unusual.”

“You’re precious.” She laughs; the sound clear and straight-forward. “You have some big city dreams, kid?”

Kurt feels his features wilt and shrugs.

“I used to.” He presses his lips together, keeps the hopelessness trapped inside.

“I used to dream big, once. Really big.” She muses.

“I guess the time for dreams is long passed for both of us.” Kurt aims to sound wise and light-hearted but knows he mostly comes off as sad and bitter.

She remains silent for a few seconds. The smile on her lips softens, becomes more genuine.

“At one point, once you realize you can’t dream any bigger and you’re still empty inside, you start dreaming small.” She says, quietly.

Kurt is intrigued, but hesitates to ask for more details, this conversation already much deeper than his usual customer small talk.

“Besides,” she turns towards him “whoever told you there’s an expiry date on dreams is full of shit.”

Kurt snorts at how suddenly she went from being thoughtful to rude. She’s definitely an interesting lady.

“You got anyone tying you down here, honey? Love makes you do some crazy stuff, but you look miserable.” She looks at him from above the rim of her sunglasses. Her eyes are brown and piercing.

He opens his mouth to answer but for a moment, all that comes out is air.

“No it’s not like that.” He frowns. “I’m not miserable.” It sounds weak to his own ears.

She’s still smiling softly, wistfully, and turns back to face the road ahead.

“I settled down here when I met the person I love. It’s such a fucking cliché.” She laughs again. Then, her voice becomes really quiet. “Never thought it was possible to be this happy, though.”

She leans forward and fiddles with the radio. The CD he’d popped in a few days ago comes to life mid song.

 

" _I won’t cry for you  
I won’t crucify the things you do_"

 

Kurt smiles and turns the volume knob so he can still speak above the music.

“I love this album.” He says and flicks his eyes towards her, looking for a sign of recognition. “Are you familiar with her work? I’m always amazed at how fast people forgot about her after she died.”

“Mmh. That was a long time ago, kid.” She cocks her head to the side and crosses her skinny arms over her chest.

“My friends all had tickets to go see her show and I was really jealous, because I couldn’t go.” Kurt reminisces. “She got shot in New York, two weeks before the Cleveland show.” He shakes his head, remembers the soul-sucking sorrow he’d felt, how it had only brought back the never distant distress of his dad’s death. He allows himself to get lost in his memories for a moment. “I’m sorry, you have to stop me. I can be such a blabbermouth!”

She doesn’t answer, lets the music fill the cab.

 _”I wait on mountain tops and Paris cold, J’veux pas mourir toute seule.”_ They sing in unison.

“Hey!” Kurt says with delight. “I thought you weren’t familiar with Lady Gaga.”

She makes a non-committal sounds and shrugs one bony shoulders.

“Well, that’s pretty universal.” She says.

“The theme, you mean? Not wanting to die alone? I guess.”

She smiles.

“You speak French or you had to look that up?”

“Le français est une langue qui convient beaucoup mieux à la tristesse.” Kurt enunciates. He knows his accent and pronunciation must be horrible after so many years without practice, but he always made an effort not to lose the language; clinging to the only remotely exotic thing in his life, he guesses.

“You can be sad in any language, in any part of the world and doing the only thing you thought could make you happy. Thing is, you’ll never know until you go there and try.” She says, looking at the road ahead.

 

Those words sink into Kurt like rocks into a riverbed. They sink and sink until they can’t make their way further and anchor themselves there. He tries to convince himself that they’re just pseudo pop psychology from an eccentric city woman who doesn’t have enough sense in her to get her car looked at when it starts spewing infernal noises. Last time he listened to a woman like that, he was fifteen and ended drunk in school, puking on his guidance counselor’s shoes and clutching an armful of muscle magazines.  
The rest of the drive is done mostly in silence, the smiling woman tapping her fingernails on the passenger side window to the rhythm of the music.

 

“Fernando!” Kurt hollers once they get to the garage.

“Sheesh, Kurt, no need to call my name like that, I’m right here.”

“Sorry, sorry. I just wanted to make sure my best man was available to tend to this lady’s car.” He turns to her. “I’m leaving you in good hands ma’am. The waiting area is over there.” He leans in and adds:

“Freshly stocked with this month’s Vogue, if that’s of any interest to you.”

She laughs sweetly.

“Thank you, doll. I hope you find the key to those shackles.”

Kurt leaves her with a last hesitant smile and a handshake. He doesn’t know what takes over him, but he walks straight to the red ’59 Chevy waiting at the back of the shop.

He lets his hand follow the peculiarly shaped rear deck distinctive to that year’s model and walks slowly to the driver’s side. He crouches down, and strokes the indentation there. Kurt’s always liked doing bodywork and Alex worked in a place that specializes in muscle cars for a few years, so Kurt could ask for help if he needed pointers. He knows he could get this job done rather quickly. His fingers linger on the edges of the irregularity. He wonders what happened; wonders if Blaine got into an accident. Rationally, he knows the dent is too small and not deep enough to have been anything dangerous, but he imagines it, still; the fuming car wrapped around Blaine’s body like a metal death trap. He frowns and lets his hand fall away.

 

“Oh wow! Is that a [Classic Porsche 911](http://i490.photobucket.com/albums/rr261/fannietheflaky/degrees%20of%20freedom/kurtandblainesclassicporshe911.jpg)?”

 

Kurt stands up and swirls around. The woman he just towed in has wandered into the back of the shop and is lifting the tarp off of the only other car in storage at the moment. His dad always used to say you couldn’t call yourself a mechanic if you didn’t have a dream car that you never had the time to rebuild gathering dust in a dark corner at the back of your shop.

“Yep. I always just kind of forget that it’s there; it’s been here much longer than me.”

“You can’t let a beast like that rot under a tarp! Those are pretty rare nowadays. That’s a car for going places!”

Kurt smiles wistfully. He remembers sneaking a look under the tarp as a kid and liking the color. He lays his palm on the shiny green body.

“I’d have to completely rebuild it, but I guess you’re right. With some work this baby could take me anywhere.”

She smiles at him and her eyes twinkle.

 

“Anywhere.” She presses, waggling her eyebrows.

 

Kurt laughs. They are interrupted when Rob timidly calls the woman over to fill some paperwork. She replaces the tarp and winks at him before she makes her way back to the waiting area.

 

“Think about it!” She throws over her shoulder.

 

And, weirdly enough, he does.

 

***

 

Kurt’s been working on the Porsche for a few weeks, now. He doesn’t mention it to Blaine. He doesn’t even really know why he’s doing it. He can’t pretend he’s doing it for himself or to honor his dad’s memory; every time he lays so much as a finger on that car he imagines himself riding shotgun next to Blaine on a highway to anywhere. What is he thinking? Is he building the guy a car so that he can better leave Kurt behind in a trail of dust?

They’ve been meeting for coffee at the Lima Bean almost every day, Blaine seemingly unbothered by the commute. He’s always there first, sitting in front of his laptop, typing away. Kurt hasn’t seen him looking at classifieds, but then again Blaine looks like the sort of guy who has enough money to buy a brand new model. Kurt’s a little afraid that, any day now, Blaine will open his mouth and say he’s got a car and a destination and so long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, adieu.

“I’m sorry I ran. That morning.” Kurt says out of the blue. It’s Kurt’s day off and as much as he’d like to make himself believe that the best part of days off is getting to dress to impress, he can’t deny how much he loves those lazy days. They meet at the café, order several coffees, read the paper, swap back order editions of fashion magazines and chat. When Kurt doesn’t have to rush to the garage, the need to talk is less intense and they often weave in and out of conversations, lapsing into companionable silences. “I woke up and I felt… I think I felt too good. And you were _singing_ and it was _that song_.” Kurt continues.

Blaine is peeking up at him from above an old 2015 Vogue magazine. He perks up.

“You heard me sing! That can’t _possibly_ be what made you flee.”

“So modest.” Kurt huffs and rolls his eyes.

“I was in an a capella choir back in high school. I love singing. I miss it a lot.”

“Really? I was in glee club. It meant a lot to me, even if they never gave me any solos. I wanted to become a performer. I don’t think I’ve really sang since I graduated. It used to be such a big part of me. All the friends I ever had were in that club.” Kurt says wistfully.

“What school did you go to?”

“William McKinley High.”

“Are you kidding me? McKinley beat us at the regional rounds in my junior year! How come we never met?”

“I had to drop glee club that year. That’s when my dad passed away.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

 

The silence is a little heavier than usual, but not uncomfortable. Blaine goes back to his magazines and flips a few pages before Kurt speaks again, almost in a whisper.

 

“My dad loved his garage a lot.” He doesn’t know why he says it, doesn’t know why he sounds like he’s trying to convince Blaine.

 

Blaine places his hand on top of Kurt’s on the tabletop and waits until Kurt looks him in the eyes to say:  
“I’m sure he did. I’m also sure he loved _you_ more.”

 

Kurt’s feels his lower lip tremble on an exhale and he bites down on it because he is no longer a teary-eyed sixteen year old. Blaine’s fingers trace soothing pattern on his hand and he starts speaking in a calm, low voice.

 

“After high school, I went to Boston University. I finished my teaching degree and got a spot at the school I’d made my internship at. The 8th grade English teacher was taking a sabbatical and I guess made a good impression, because they offered me to take his place for the year. It’s quite hard to find teaching spots, especially in bigger cities. You usually have to go to more remote places if you ever wish to get a permanent spot and they were making it pretty clear that if a position opened up in the next few years they’d be glad to have me filling it. When I was a teen, I went to, hum, Dalton Academy?” He pauses and looks up at Kurt who nods.

“Anyway, I was bullied a lot in public school so my parents transferred me transferred to Dalton. They had a zero-tolerance bullying policy there. I had such a great time with the choir and I made a lot of friends. I’ve always been a little idealistic, so in retrospect I realise I became a teacher hoping I could make things a little better for kids in public school who aren’t as privileged as I was. Did _you_ have a tough time in high school?” Blaine asks.

“I actually became friends with some of my tormentors when I joined glee club, but yeah. I got shoved around. It calmed down when I came back to school after my dad died. I guess even bullies have consciences.” Kurt shrugs but he knows he’ll never forget the humiliation of climbing out of a dumpster, the frustrated tears he shed scrubbing at slushie stains on ruined clothes. The names he’s been called still come back to him sometimes and every time he finds a bruise on his body he remembers the pain of being shoved into a row of lockers. Most of all he remembers how no one had ever helped or cared.

“There was this one boy in one of my groups.” Blaine picks up his story. “The only thing he did without discrimination was bullying. So I gave warnings, then detentions, then a lot of detentions. No punishment seemed to be enough to get him to be civil so I went to the principal and got him suspended for a week.” Kurt senses Blane growing uneasy. He let’s go of Kurt’s hand and starts twisting and shredding his napkin.

“I never hid the fact that I was gay,” Blaine continues and the non-sequitur makes Kurt raise an eyebrow. “The principal and the school board knew it and I didn’t unnecessarily flaunt it but I decided that if my students ever asked, I’d be honest; show them that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, like I wish someone had done for me when I was that age. When that kid came back from his suspension, he started telling other students that I always kept him after class because…”

Blaine looks down at his hands.

“He accused me of sexual harassment. It didn’t go to court or anything, but I still had to hire a lawyer. I was lucky the school backed me up. I guess the kid realized that his lie was becoming much bigger than some petty revenge because he finally admitted that he’d made the story up, but… I couldn’t bear to go back. I knew there would always be doubts among the parents, and the students… What’s the point of being a teacher if the students can’t trust me? So I ran. Again.” He shrugs but Kurt knows that just like his bullying, that’s not something Blaine can shrug off.

“That’s awful.” He finally says in a hushed voice, aware that nothing he says could possibly make the situation any better.

“Things have been rather strained at home since I’ve been back.” Blaine’s face is pained, like he has a hard time finding the right words. “My parents barely speak to me. I’m an adult, now. Things shouldn’t be like this, you know?”

Kurt knows too well. He places his hand on Blaine’s.

“Do you think you could ever go back to teaching?” He asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe someday, who knows? Right now I’m a bit aimless but…”

“But?” Kurt encourages.

“I’ve been writing. I always wanted to write a book and I’ve had a lot of time on my hands, so…” He looks embarrassed and gestures towards his bag where Kurt knows his laptop is. “And you know what’s great about writing? I can do it anywhere.”

 

Blaine is smiling at him. He looks hopeful. Kurt feels himself crumbling from the inside.

 

“You could do anything. You could try to make it as a performer like you dreamed about in high school. You could design clothes; those brooches you make are amazing. You could be anything you want to be, Kurt.

 

“What?” Kurt frowns and straightens his back.

 

“You could go to college-”

 

“Are you implying that my being a mechanic is somehow not good enough, Blaine?” Kurt is angry now but Blaine raises his hands in a pacifying gesture.

 

“Not at all, but _you_ do. Everyday.”

 

Kurt stands up and starts gathering his things.

 

“You know how hard it is for me at the garage! Everyone treats me like I don’t belong there!” He’s shouting in a public place but he doesn’t even care.

 

“Maybe it’s because you give off the vibe that you’d rather be anywhere else.” Blaine doesn’t shout back. He speaks calmly and just sits there, looking sad and defeated.

 

“How dare you? It’s my _dad’s_ garage! The one he left me! He’d be _proud_ of me, okay?” Kurt doesn’t know what’s happening. He’s crying and yelling and he knows everyone’s looking at him, but he can’t stop.

 

“I’m sure he would be, but I think he’d be much prouder if you were doing something that actually made you happy.”

 

Kurt turns on his heels and doesn’t stop when he hears Blaine calling his name. He storms out and runs to his car, the car his dad gave him.

 

***

 

 **Blaine:** I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please call me.  
 **Blaine:** I’m really sorry I pushed. I just want you to be happy.  
 **Blaine:** Kurt?

 

***

 

Blaine’s lying in his bed, waiting for his cellphone to buzz, like a lovelorn sixteen year old. The floor creaks in the hallway and he sees his mother’s shadow under his bedroom door. After a minute he hears her steps retreating.

Blaine feels all twisted up inside. His half-unmade luggage is still on the floor and he doesn’t know if he wants to grab its content and throw it haphazardly across the room or if he wants to grab all of his belongings and shove them in alongside what’s still messily piled in his suitcase.

It’s been two days since he’s last spoken to Kurt at the Lima Bean and Blaine is starting to think that he’s done something irreversible. His chest aches at the thought of the loss, but he thinks it was almost worth it for a chance to open Kurt’s eyes. He wants to go to the garage to see him but he thinks it would be really unfair of him to ambush Kurt in his workplace, especially since the other man obviously doesn’t want to talk to him. He’s debating whether he should send Kurt another text message when his phone vibrates in his hand. Kurt’s name flashes on the screen and Blaine’s fingers trip over themselves to accept the call.

“Kurt, hi!”

“You’re looking for a new car, right? A car that can take you places” Kurt’s voice sounds a little hoarse.

“Hum, yes.”

“Well I’ve been building one. I’m almost done.”

“What?”

“I’ve been building one. I’m almost done.” He repeats, a little louder.

“It wasn’t a _What? I didn’t hear what you just said._ it was a _What? I have no idea what you’re talking about._.”

“You don’t want to come over, then?” Kurt sounds brittle and Blaine doesn’t care about the car. He just really wants to see his friend.

“No. No, yes. Absolutely. Yes. I’m coming” Blaine babbles.

“Ok. Thanks.”

An hour and a half later, when he climbs out of his tiny little Japanese rental car, he’s surprised to see Kurt waiting for him, sitting just outside the entrance of the auto shop. The sky is dark, Blaine doesn’t know what time it is, but he’s pretty sure the garage’s closed for the night. When he approaches and gets a good look at Kurt’s face his heart seizes up.

“Oh my God, Kurt! What happened?”

Kurt stands up and sighs. His left eye his dark and swollen, his gaze never reaches Blaine’s face.

“I fired Vic.” He states simply.

“Did he do this to you?” Blaine reaches up to touch Kurt’s face but changes his mind at the last minute, lets his hands drop to his sides. He feels powerless.

“I have no idea what we were fighting about. Maybe the number of screws we keep in inventory, maybe the kind of coffee I buy for the machine in the office, I don’t know. I was kind of all up in his face with my righteous anger. I don’t know why I thought he’d never do it; I knew his problems with me went far beyond my sexual orientation. He seemed really shocked…after. He was looking at his fist like he himself never thought he’d actually snap. He was sort of in a daze and he kept apologizing. I fired him and he didn’t even say anything, except he kept apologizing.” Kurt’s voice had started out flat and empty but it had quickly climbed in pitch and his words were weak, trembling little things squeezed past his convulsing throat.

Blaine wraps his arms around him and Kurt burst into tears.

“You were right, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be here. I really, really don’t. I wanted to do the right thing, but I keep doing the wrong things.” He whispers against Blaine’s ear, his bony fingers clutched into the fabric of Blaine’s cardigan. Blaine simply shushes him and rubs his back soothingly, letting Kurt’s accumulated sorrow cascade out of him in crashing waves. Once he’s calmed down a little Kurt disentangle himself from Blaine embrace and wipes at his face. “Ugh. I’m sorry. I’m such a mess.”

“You’re beautiful.” The compliment spills out of him, simple and true.

“Shut up.” Kurt blushes and Blaine is thrilled to see one of the corners of his lips lift up.

“I think you mentioned something about building me a car?” Blaine inquires.

Kurt snorts and opens the door to the shop, lets Blaine in and locks the door.

“I said no such thing. This car is all mine. I just don’t like driving for long distances. I figured I needed a chauffeur. Ta-dah.” He says once he’s led Blaine to the Porsche. Blaine whistles appreciatively.

Kurt turns around, nervously wringing his hands. His voice his still high pitched and wavering from his earlier crying fit when he asks:  
“Have we waited long enough, Blaine? Can we be together, now?”

 

Blaine lets Kurt’s name tumble from his lips as he crowds him against the green, shiny body of the car. He gently cradles Kurt’s injured face between his hands and whispers: “Yes, yes.”, before he finally, finally, _finally_ kisses him.

 

***

 

Kurt asks Blaine to help him with the last few adjustments that need to done on the Porsche and it’s strangely, inexplicably intimate. Their fingers brush every time Blaine hands Kurt the tools and parts he asks for. With Kurt’s bruised face buried under the hood of the green beauty, their eyes rarely meet and their lips loosen, their secrets spilling out into the heart of the car.

“Some days I sit in front of my computer for hours. I watch the text bar blink and I wonder what makes me believe I could ever be a writer if I wasn’t even able to be a teacher.”

“Some of my high school friends are making it in New York, right now; one of them is an understudy on Broadway and another works at a fashion magazine. Every time they write, I hate myself a little more because I’m so bitter and jealous I can’t even be happy for them.”

“I didn’t use to be this awkward; I think I left trail of self-esteem crumbs on the road from Boston to Westerville.”

“Sometimes, I’ll be doing something… I don’t know, like I’ll be at the Home Depot buying a bag of seeds for my lawn and I’ll just have this one panicked moment. I’ll wonder: who is this person? Where have _I_ gone?”

“You know that dent in my car? I kicked it in there. And I’m glad I did. I’m so, so glad.”

“I’m glad too.”

 

It takes Kurt only a few days to arrange his paperwork. He keeps the garage but makes Fernando manager. He sublets the house.

When the car is finally finished, Kurt gently pushes Blaine into the backseat, undresses him and climbs on top of him. He tries to replicate all of Blaine’s tender touches from their first night together and his take-charge attitude reduces Blaine to a clingy, moaning mess underneath him. The car rocks back and forth and the windows are all fogged up. _Such a cliché._ Kurt thinks while he’s still coherent enough and then he laughs into Blaine’s open mouth because he’s starting to really like clichés.

Afterwards, when they’ve cleaned up, Kurt stores his 2010 Navigator next to Blaine’s 1959 Chevrolet. Blaine helps him cover both cars with tarps. They’re leaving tomorrow.

 

***

“So you said you want to go to New York first, right?”

“Yes! It’s going to be amazing! We might not be flying there, but it will be my first road trip! We can have breakfast at Tiffany’s and go to Broadway!” Kurt’s voice is full of excitement and his eyes are sparkling. He looks a different kind of happy than Blaine usually sees when Kurt’s in a good mood. Or maybe it’s just his only _real_ kind of happy.

Blaine has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the stick. For the first time in ten years, there is absolutely no fear inside of him; not a single knot of anxiety. He feels lit up from the inside.

“I love you.” He says, sure.

There is a pause in which the stars shine and the night is peaceful and not a single rock drops at the bottom of his stomach.

“I love you too.” Kurt says and takes Blaine’s hand in his. They share a smile.

Kurt places the key in his palm. Blaine slots it in the ignition and turns.

The End


End file.
